Fred Flintstone would like Daniel's Broiler (Bellevue Place, Seattle).
Pterodactyl Steak. Rack o' Brontosaurus. T-Rex Ribs. Size of Australia Lobster Tails. And do save room for the 10,000 calorie gut-busting Chocolate Volcano.
It was the waiter, Adrian, who started it. "Tonight's special is corn fed Iowan beef prime rib. We call it the Flintstone Cut."
Laughter ensued. "Heh, heh. He said Flintstone cut. Funny, huh?"
I opted for the small 9 oz filet mignon since I'm watching my weight. Well, I'm watching my weight go up but I figure "watching it" is the first of a twelve step program. But my colleague, Dave, went for the Flintstone. Love that corn fed beef, he said, can't get enough.
The evening started well with a nice cocktail, fresh seafood appetizer of oysters on the half shell, shrimp and crab, fresh baked bread and sparkling conversation as only a table of computer specialists can produce.
"Yeah, but if you route the IP framastat through a wombat switch you can get one-point-one times the throughput, and, yeah, the wombat switch will bite you in the ass a few times but for point-one improvement it's worth the skin graft." Stuff like that. Waiters would hold their breath before entering our private room then leave quickly before they started bleeding from the ears.
I should have known from the grunting and groaning that the Flintstone Cut was arriving, but I was taken by surprise when the Haunch o' Hadrasaur was ratcheted down in front of Dave.
Even for a person raised in a society of conspicuous consumption I was taken aback. On a very large plate sat a very large piece of meat. It had to weigh in at four pounds if an ounce. Huge. My 9-oz filet by comparison looked like a button mushroom. Dave looked at my dinner and scoffed, "You gonna eat all that?" My thought, bitten back, was "You gonna live through dinner?"
It got worse.
Adrian appeared again with three Australian lobster tails in tow. Who ordered pillows, I thought. Soon my petite filet was covered in lobster.
It got worse.
Asparagus, mushrooms, broccoli, thrice cooked garlic potatoes, peas, carrots, some kind of fried thing (who knows?)...it kept coming and coming. My Mother's voice haunted me: "It's not polite to leave food on your plate." But, I was at the breaking point. I had long abandoned the notion of watching my weight. Now, I was just trying to survive. Each dish was more exquisite than the previous one. It would be a crime to waste the chef's talent.
Conversation gave way to the gnashing of teeth and devouring of the Flintstone Cut. Finally, the frenzy subsided and Dave was the first to speak. "I don't think I'll eat another thing for a month. I'm afraid to breathe lest I pop."
At that moment Adrian waltzed in and chimed, "Who's for dessert?"
Most of us were too stuffed to reply. Finally, Dave spoke up.
"I think I'll have the 10,000 calorie gut-busting Chocolate Volcano. And a decaf coffee. Black. I'm watching my weight."