"He was this close to talking back to me." I demonstrate just how close for my Dinner Companion. My thumb, mere millimeters away from my forefinger, is rock steady. I admire it for a few moments. My Dinner Companion, obviously breathless, waits for me to continue the story. I let the anticipation build for a bit then continue, "In the office, even. Who did he think he was? I saw it in his beady eyes and red face. He was holding his breath, with his mouth blown out, like that black trumpet player with the deformed cheeks, and his nostrils flailed. Flailed! He was this close to speaking." I again show him the rock steady distance. He's obviously impressed. Who wouldn't be? High-stakes office politics oozes from me. I nod as he agrees more inanely than I expected. He goes on for a while as I admire my watch.

I gaze over the ocean where the sun sets behind the western mountains. The pink sky turns the beach golden and stains blonde highlights on the water. The surf is high--the weatherman said something about unexpected northwesterly winds. The evening surfers still go at it, a few paddling toward the beach, but most congregating near the foamy surf, almost to the razor sharp horizon.

My Dinner Companion has been silent for some time. He's clearly waiting for me to respond to whatever he said. The waiter's arrival saves me from having to pretend. I lead: "Prime ribs. The emperor's cut, rare, of course. The bartender, John M-something, makes a secret sauce for meat that the chef recommended when I was here back in, oh, '99 or perhaps 2000. I've been sold on it ever since. Last time, John joked that he'd name it after me, since I'm one of the few who can appreciate its richness. I've introduced a cousin of John Wheeler, the actor, to the sauce. He loved it as well and still to this day talks about it. Have him whip some up and serve it with the prime ribs. Don't bother with the horseradish--it just kills the taste. I'll take orders of the garlic mashed potatoes and that creamy spinach. Another cocktail is in order, and, come to think of it, I'll start with a dozen Kumo oysters. This is the right time of year for them, isn't it? And make sure they're fresh-flown in within the last two days, or just forget it. You can probably start the chocolate soufflé after you bring the prime ribs--that should be perfect." My Dinner Companion is in awe. I sometimes feel guilty ordering first--it must be the same feeling ice skaters get when they have to follow a perfect-score performance. My Dinner Companion starts to order; as he reads from the menu, the waiter and I share a grim look.

After my fourth cocktail arrives, I decide its time to start talking shop. "My company is quite demanding of my time, but I really can't blame them: I've had a lot of luck with the customers lately. I've been floating some ideas that they've been gobbling up--like fish on meaty hooks. I spoke with Brian, the CEO of a 'small' company yesterday (I'm sure you've heard of it, it's called Arnstar, and just made the Fortune 500) about our products. I was relaying the engineer's newest specs--come to think of it, they might as well have been my specs for all the ideas they took from me--in a private meeting, and all he kept asking was 'when, when, when?' I told him, 'you know how software development goes: once the programmers sink their teeth into new features, the best you can hope for is an alpha-alpha!-test within the year.' Brian couldn't get enough of it!" MDC stares blankly at me. He assures me he knows what an alpha test is, but I have my doubts. "I had scheduled two meetings that morning after Brian. I literally had to threaten physical violence to leave the meeting. Once I start spouting ideas, my audience never can get enough of me."

The appetizers arrive and I dig right in. Not surprisingly, the Kumo oysters were in season. They're presented in a black-wooden oriental bowl filled with crushed ice and seaweed. The oysters, arranged in an alternating horizontal and vertical arrangement, are slimy and glistening. I squeeze just the right amount of lemon and dribble the ideal amount of thick, red cocktail sauce onto each shucked shell. I eat the first one, and, as expected, it is delectable.

"Regrettably, I'm going to have to catch a flight tomorrow morning to return to L.A. I can't be away from the home-office for too long. I'd say the place would fall apart with out me, but that would be a terrible understatement." Like clockwork, the subject of airlines and flights comes up. I start with the normal chat about security and tourists. He goes on about removing his shoes and I laugh. The drinks are stronger than usual. A couple next to us keeps turning around to look at me. I give them a smile and suck the last oyster dry.

"Can you believe I didn't get an upgrade on the flight here? After fighting through the elite lines to get to an open airline e-ticket machine--I swear, it's as if these passengers have never used a computer before, the time it takes them to print their tickets and check their bags; it's embarrassing--I punched in my credit card and seat 24F came up on the screen. I was sure it was a mistake. This is a 777 and there aren't 24 rows in first-class! I mean, really, I'm a platinum member. I'm not cattle, like the ones who fly to Hawaii to be slathered in slime and roasted to a pink doneness," I stop, mid-sentence and grin, admiring my own cleverness. While I admit it's a conceit of mine to think this way, I do have a way with words. I lose my train of thought as a woman walks by. She's wearing a tight, sleeveless dress with a sharp diamond cutout back. After studying her closely, I'm rewarded with a shadowed view of rear cleavage, which I point out to my Dinner Companion. He quickly agrees. I toast her cleavage and, reluctantly, her companion, a rather goofy tourist in mismatched Hawaiian shorts and shirt, the tags of which are still poking from the faux silk.

The waiter clears our appetizers and delivers another cocktail. I disappointingly note that MDC is not keeping up and he makes noises about early meetings. I'm not sure how to respond, so I don't. "Where was I before that walked by? Oh, yes. We were talking about cows. As I was saying, seat 24F came up. I quickly checked the electronic seating chart--mistakes do happen--and not only is my seat not in first-class, it's past the wing, halfway through the first-passenger section. And, to add insult to injury, it's a middle seat! I immediately call an attendant to double check. We chat for a bit, and she has the gall to print up my ticket, swing and throw--and I mean literally twirl multiple times to build up speed, like an Olympic Hammer thrower, before releasing--my bag on the conveyor belt, and walk away, as if I had said something wrong. But it gets worse." MDC is now completely captivated. He's sipping at his drink, sucking ice up with his straw in a most distracting way. The crushed ice barely fits into the bottom of the straw, but once he maneuvers it in, the ice shoots at high speeds up the straw. I wait to see if it will get stuck in his throat, loosening-up my arms for some Heimlich; but it's regrettably not needed.

During my pause, MDC starts in again. The sun has completely set and the water is dark. The surf can still be seen by the moonlight, but the surfers are near invisible. Teams of them wash off at the showers at the edge of the beach. A fair number of them are women, mostly on the fat side. It seems MDC has traveled quite often in coach. I'm starting to think I chose the wrong companion for dinner tonight. While he might understand my commentary, I'm not sure he can truly appreciate it. I smile encouragingly and I excuse myself. It's early in the night to break the seal, but I need to get away for a bit. MDC seems the type to go on and on.

I return just as the wait staff, as if on cue, swoop down to serve our dinners. While our waiter personally places my dinner plates, a busboy delivers MDC's. As he lowers MDC's vegetable plate, a buttery string bean leaps off the plate onto MDC's lap. It is obvious that the waiter put the busboy up to it, probably still disgusted at MDC's proletarian ordering. I chuckle as I cut into the prime rib and slather it in the secret sauce. It's even better than I remembered.

A Hawaiian band starts performing at the beach level of the hotel. The tourists form a semi-circle around the performers, kept back by male hula dancers wielding flaming torches. The music is unmistakably island and not terribly unpleasant. A particularly striking hula dancer wearing a sequin red dress erotically moves her hips to the strumming players. She takes small, careful, toe-first steps as she waves her wrists and fingers slowly, moving more to the beat of the shushing waves than the ukulele and guitar chords. Some people at the restaurant, including the ogling couple, join in the tourist's applause at the end of each song.

I return to my steak and interrupt MDC as he attempts to explain the proper procedure for eating crab legs, which, according to him, involves a lot of incorrect smashing, a little more correct cracking, and probably the worst attempt at sucking meat from a shell in the history of meat-sucking. "My flight got much worse." My resonant voice carries well over the music and MDC puts down his mutilated crab leg--his efforts resulting only in tiny shreds of meat and greasy fingers--and listens intently. "I got on the plane during the courtesy board, and things were looking good as the stewardess announced she was closing the plane door, cellular phones off, etcetera. My aisle neighbor, an older man that did not smell too offensive and leaned respectfully away from me, and more importantly, away from our shared armrest, was already belted in. More promising was that my window neighbor was missing. As you know, two coach seats are almost better than a first-class seat. I began to slightly regret how harshly I had spoken to the ticket girl. That regret was very--and I mean very--short lived. Following the stewardess from the rear of the plane as she came through the aisle for a final pre-flight check," I pause--dramatically--and upend my cocktail. "Just as she walked up the aisle, a Hawaiian woman with a baby strapped to her chest appeared. I admit I panicked. I'm usually calm on airplanes, but after frantically calculating where she was heading--which was obviously not the first-class cabin--only one seat remained: the one next to me."

MDC regards me with genuine sympathy. I saw the meat with my five-inch knife and remove a large swath from the bone. I lather the meat in the orange cocktail sauce and hover the fork inches from my mouth, watching (but not seeming to watch) MDC stare longingly at the perfectly cut and dipped prime rib. I chew and swallow, blotting the juices running down from my lips. "Me and the older man get up and let her in the row. She proceeds to spread out all her baby crap not only under her seat, but also over our shared armrest and partly under my seat. My already too small middle seat! And just when things could not possibly get worse, the baby starts to wail. And when I say wail, I mean the sky-is-falling, get-the-fire-department-because-my-baby-is-trapped-under-the-blue-fragments wail."

MDC is not the only one engrossed by my tale. By now, the male part of the couple at the next table is listening raptly. He seems the professional sort, wearing pants, which tourists, who seem to forget all notions of fashion while on vacation, never seem to do in Hawaii. His date's neck is awfully fine, both thin and shapely, and well displayed with her hair up in a messy but intriguing bun. As I look, she turns around and I tip my empty glass to her health and the health of her well-cushioned spine. She quickly glances away and shares a look with her date. He turns back to me and based on his look, I'm sure he wants me to continue with the story.

"While the mother moves her stuff around, she casually--in quite difficult to understand English--mentions that she's traveling with her fiancé, who is seated in the rear of the airplane. She goes on to suggest that should her baby disturb me, she'd be happy to have him switch seats with me. She tells me he's seated in 38B, 'B' mind you. I do some quick calculations and determine that not only is that seat farther away from the cabin door, it's also a middle seat in the middle of the plane--with the exception of seats near the toilet, there are no worse seats. Besides, the way she asked, it sounded more like she was doing me a favor instead of visa-versa. I thank her and bury my nose in a magazine, trying to ignore the feel of the baby's clammy hands on my turned-in elbow."

The crab legs seem to be winning in MDC's dinner struggle. He already gave up on the strange plastic claw-like instrument that came with the metal pliers and tiny fork. Now he painstakingly removes shell bits from the tiny strands of meat. The waiter stops by to inquire how our meal is going. MDC ignores him, but I assure him that we're doing fine--great, even. I hold up my empty glass and he takes the hint.

"This was a night flight and after reviewing my meeting notes, I try to catch some Zs. The baby shuts up long enough for me to almost fall asleep, only to be woken up by a tap on my shoulder. The woman wants to get up. I reluctantly wake up my neighbor and let her out. She does this three more times, before returning with her fiancé. It's obvious that the she keeps leaving her seat to visit her fiancé and not to take care of the baby. This time, the fiancé asks me if I'd like to switch seats. With all my stuff properly placed in the seat and overhead, and a clear path to the exit when the godforsaken plane lands, I have no intention of moving. I tell him, 'not really.'

"You have to understand, I've had a bad experience switching seats on a previous flight. I was flying from L.A. to N.Y., first-class, of course, and an older couple was separated, the wife--who wore way too much make-up, as if anything could hide her deep wrinkles or sagging jowls--sat next to me, and her husband was in the rear. The woman asked me if her husband could switch with me. I had a prime window seat in the first row, and, being the nice, but inexperienced traveler, I agreed. I end up in the rear of the first-class cabin. When the stewardess gets around to taking my order, she had completely run out of this excellent smelling chicken and rice dish. I had to settle for an Asian vegetarian meal! The couple in the front was laughing it up; both had chicken dishes and easy access to the stewardess for refills."

MDC is rightfully outraged by the story. Even the eavesdropping man, who sighs quite deeply and loudly at the end, is appropriately disgusted at how I was taken advantage of. The waiter clears our dinner plates, takes MDC's dessert order and heads to the kitchen. Stars replace the surfers at the horizon and Cassiopeia rises from the dark waters. The Hawaiian musicians and dancers are currently on a break, and the crowds have thinned a bit. The sharp smell of the ocean hangs heavily in the air, filling my lungs with a salty mist, which makes breathing deeply difficult, but more rewarding.

"Halfway through the flight, the person sitting next to the fiancé agrees to switch seats with the mother. When I get up to let him in, I notice that the fiancé was sitting not, as I thought, in a middle seat, but in an aisle seat. Seat 38D to be exact. Had the mother spoke properly, I would have switched. As it was, I barely slept the rest of the flight, having to get up at the end again for the mother to switch back. By the time she returned, the baby stank. Luckily, the landing and taxiing were rather quick, and I escaped that nightmare."

The waiter returns with our desserts. He presents my chocolate soufflé first, still in the baking cup, with drizzled raspberry and vanilla sauces decorating the plate. I put my fork into the cup and scoop out a small piece. Steaming dark chocolate leaks out of the center of the cake. I blow carefully on the drenched cake and place the forkful in my mouth. The warm cake is tender but not sweet. The chocolate sauce is incredibly rich, just a hair away from being too much so. I close my eyes as the cake and sauce blend and dissolve.

As I take a second bite, I see the neighboring couple preparing to leave. The woman is grasping her date's arm hard around his bicep and she's talking quietly to him. He keeps looking over at the table and I raise my glass to his health. The chocolate is still stewing in my mouth and I decide not to take a drink. He turns and leaves the restaurant with his date in tow. The Hawaiian music strikes up just as he passes the door.