Cooking and Cruising: Restaurant Hookups and Pickups

My memories of places often center on restaurants.  The food, the people I went with, and the waiters.  

A cute waiter can make the most miserable meal appealing, and haute cuisine loses something when served by a waitress.

And sometimes the waiters do more than flirt.














Rock Island

Harris Pizza.  Harris Pizza, no question, the best in the universe.  We ordered several times a year when I was growing up, and I always insisted on getting it when I returned for a visit.  Once I tried to pick up the college boy who worked at the counter, but my friend Dick did instead.  They've been together ever since.

The Hasty Tasty Shop, a pancake house where I had my wild night of debauchery in fifth grade.  Before the night was over, I got to give a massage to a high school boy and feel a wiener.

Sandy's, a fast-food chain where the waiters all wore cute Scotch tartan kilts, I assume with nothing on underneath.


Bloomington.

Bob's Burgers (no relation to the tv show).  Viju and I used to go there after an unsuccessful night of cruising at Bullwinkle's, and sometimes with out hookups after a successful night.  You could get a hamburger with a fried egg on top.  The waiters were paid extra to get enthusiastic over the food.  And they never gave us weird looks for being two (or four) men together.

Texas
 I didn't go to Houston very often, but when I did, it was to Baba Yaga, for wall to wall gay men and couples.  I took my clueless friend Bruce there when he was visiting, and he still didn't figure it out.





West Hollywood.  

The French Quarter, our go-to place for brunch, lunch, and an occasional dinner.  Remarkable for their 8" long fried zucchini sticks.  And for their cute waiters who flirted for tips.  If you sat at the little tables outside, sooner or later everyone you knew would pass by.

I never hooked up with one of the waiters, but my on-off boyfriend Raul did -- a buffed but rather feminine Afro-Cuban guy.  Unfortunately, I didn't get a chance to share.

La Azteca, a Mexican restaurant beyond the boundaries of West Hollywood.  Lane and I only went there once, but we managed to start a three-way romance with Mauricio, our waiter.

Hamburger Hamlet.  Burgers and fries rivaling anyplace in the world.  Marshall the Virgin and I used to go there after working out.

San Francisco.

Orphan Andy's, with a diner atmosphere, cute waiters, and even cuter clientele at the beginning of Castro Street.  It was also cruisy -- my friend David hooked up with a lot of guys there.  I didn't.












New York

Thai Palace. There were about 10 Thai restaurants in a 10 block radius of my apartment, but I always went to a little Thai restaurant near the Flatiron Building that's not there anymore.  Stuffed, deep-fried chicken wings with a sweeet sauce!  Never found them anywhere else. I brought Yuri there every time he visited me in Manhattan.

Paris.  

Suam Thai.  Speaking of Thai restaurants, during my summer in Paris I went to Suam Thai almost every night, and I tried to go back whenever I visited later.  No Angel wings, but good pad thai to go. I managed to hook up with Prasert, the chef -- while he was still working.

Florida.  

The Courtyard Cafe, Wilton Manors' answer to the French Quarter, with a huge patio where dozens of gay men gathered for brunch every Saturday.  Lunch was ok, too.  My friend hooked up with a waiter here, and dated him for six months.

Thai Sushi.  I'm not a fan of sushi, but I am a fan of cute waiters, and it was near The Club, the bath house of Wilton Manors.  Sometimes the guy at the next table ended up at The Club a moment later.

Amsterdam.  

Indrapura, an Indonesian restaurant notable for its chicken and beef satay, was on Rembrandtplein, just across the street from the guest house I always stayed in, and less than a mile from the Horseman's Club.  I never hooked up with any waiters, but I did get a date with a regular.

 Dayton.  

Lone Star Barbecue.  We always went to the Lone Star Barbecue for breakfast.  Pancakes, "cowboy potatoes," and brisket-omelettes.  Plus Josh a long-haired hipster waiter with a ripped chest and huge biceps.  I saw him naked at the gym, too. (See my Sausage Sighting List).

The Dragon Palace, my go-to place for Chinese food.  Usually I got it delivered.  I tried to hookup with the delivery guy, Bobby Chan, but ended up with his Anglo friend instead.












Upstate New York


The Neptune Diner, one of those old-fashioned glass and steel diners that advertises "steaks and chops," whatever those are, but has a menu 30 pages long. I liked the gyros, the moussaka, the pancakes, and the chicken.  Chad, the housemate of the Satyr , who I dated in the fall of 2008, was a waiter there.

Applebee's.  Yes, the chain.  Troy always wanted to go to the one in the mall for lunch Saturday, because the bartender/waiter was his type: older, muscular, hairy. Unfortunately, he wore an apron that kept his bulge hidden.

The Plains

The Pizza Ranch. A horrible fundamentalist Christian pizza chain that offers gut-busting deep-fried chicken and Bible verses, but the hottest waiters imaginable.  I managed to hook up with a gay guy going undercover.

Rainbow Coffee.  There are no gay bars or restaurants in town, but there's a gay-friendly, lesbian-run vegan coffee house where you can meet lots of bohemian artistic gay-friendly types, like the cute English major Warren from the fundamentalist college on the hill.  I haven't actually seen him like this yet, but he's just a sophomore, so there's plenty of time.

Indianapolis

Charlie's Bar and Grille, a crazy retro restaurant where I got picked up by a waiter named Mike.

See also: My Top Sausage Sightings.

The Tuesday Night Conundrum: "Who You Gonna Call?"

When I was in high school in Rock Island, Tuesday was the worst day of the week.  It was the day you had to call a girl to ask for a date for Saturday night.

All day long your clique at school kept interrogating each other: "Who you going to call?  Is she hot?  How big are her boobs?"

 All night long your parents kept prodding: "Who are you going to call?"  "When are you going to call?  What are you going to say?"

The pressure was intense.  Getting a "yes" meant tearful "Our boy is growing up!" exclamations from your parents, plus an extra $5 allowance to pay for the date; it meant back-slapping congratulations from friends and even teachers in school the next day.  It meant that you were a person of value; you had accomplished something marvelous.

Getting a "no" meant, at best, hand-on-shoulder consolation, as if you were suffering through a major tragedy, and more likely jeers and put-downs; it meant that you were worthless, a failure.  You were a child, not an adult; a "fag," not a man.

The date request call put lot of pressure on the girl, too.  It told her "You are the Girl of My Dreams.  You are my One True Love.  This request is not for one evening together, but for a lifetime."

No wonder mean girls would laugh and slam the phone down, and nice girls would make stuttering, embarrassed excuses: "Oh...um...well, I think I'm...er...busy...hang on, I'll check...Dad, do we have that thing on Saturday night?"

For that reason, there was no such thing as serial dating.  That telephone call was the equivalent of a marriage proposal.  If the date went well (whatever that meant), you would henceforth be "going together."  You would walk to class together, sit together at lunch, telephone each other every night.  You would have to "break up" in order to date someone else.

If the date went badly, the girl and her friends would never speak to you again.

So who are you going to call?  Most discussions in school for the duration of the week involved imagining the sexual ecstasies awaiting on Saturday night (if she said yes), or evaluating prospects for next Tuesday night's call (if she said no).  There were many stipulations:
1. No one older, not even by a few months.
2. No one who you had called before.
3. No one who had dated one of your friends.
4. No one who was a friend (if she said "no," she would never speak to you again).
5. No one who was fat, wore glasses, or had inadequately sized breasts (I'm not sure why; there would be no babies around to breast-feed, so what did it matter?).

You're probably wondering why a gay kid bothered to participate in such a stressful, high-pressure ritual.
1. I hadn'd figured "it" out yet.  I had no idea that gay people existed, that same-sex desire existed.  I thought that no boy was actually attracted to girls; we dated them because it was required.
2. The long night of sexual ecstasies turned out to be optional -- girls were perfectly satisfied with a good-night kiss on the cheek.  You just had to make something up when your friends asked the next day.
3. Gay people might not exist, but "fags" did, boys who were so frustrated at their inability to attract girls that they decided to become girls.   Every "no" moved you a step closer to that precipice.  Eventually you would be swishing down the hallway in a cloud of lavender perfume, carrying a handbag and calling everyone "Sweetie."  We made that Tuesday night call because the alternative was disaster.

Why Infinite Chazz Broke Up with the Ginger Boy

West Hollywood, June 1994

We gave Chazz the nickname Infinite because he was infinitely hung, with at least a Mortadella, and because he was infinitely attractive.  Every guy in sight cruised him.  He would go out to the bars and come back with six telephone numbers.

We met when I was working at a camp for juvenile delinquents, but we didn't become friends until February 1994, when he was 20 years old, taking classes at Cal State Fullerton and working at Disneyland.

For the next two months, he drove up to West Hollywood nearly every Friday or Saturday, whichever day he had off, to go to dinners, parties, and Shabbat services.

He was a big hit at parties, where he usually won the "biggest penis" or "most easily aroused" contests.

He always shared our bed, unless he was out on a date.

In April 1994, a week or two after Passover, Infinite Chazz started dating Kris, a 19-year old aspiring actor, fresh out of high school in New Jersey.

"He's super-hot, and super-talented," Chazz gushed on the telephone. "He's only been in town six months, but he's already been in some movies and tv shows."

"So, you've been on three or four dates," I pointed out.  "When do we get to meet him?" It was customary to introduce the prospective boyfriend to the friends on the second date, to get their approval.  Barring that, the fourth or fifth date -- to share.

So the next weekend they had us over for dinner at Kris's terrible one-bedroom apartment on DeLongpre, just south of Sunset in Hollywood.

Kris was a ginger boy with a bright open face and a wide mouth.  Good for kissing, able to accommodate the biggest of Kovbasas.

But Chazz didn't invited us to share!

Too soon?

During the month of May, I saw Chazz and Kris often.

They came to Shabbat services at Beth Chaim Chadashim, followed by dinner at the French Quarter.

No sharing afterwards.

I had lunch alone with Kris while Chazz was at work.

No sharing afterwards.

They came to our friend Jason's party in mid May.  Kris won the "biggest penis" contest, beating out Infinite Chazz by a full inch when they were both aroused.  As his prize, he could invite anyone he wanted into the bedroom for 10 minutes.

He chose Chazz.

Still no sharing!



This was becoming awkward!  It was ok to wait a couple of weeks, but it had been over a month!  Not offering to share was unforgivably rude, like saying "You're not good enough for us!"

"Maybe Kris is HIV positive," Lane suggested, "And doesn't want to spread the virus around."

"Then he should say something!" I complained.  "And besides, we'd be having safe sex."

"Well, maybe they're monogamous."

"No sex outside the relationship?  The old heterosexual 'wife as property' model?"

"It's not very common, but it happens," Lane said.

"Ok, but they still should say something, apologize and explain, not give us the air!  It's just rude.  I'm about done with Chazz!"

"Maybe it's not Chazz's fault.  Maybe it's Kris.  He's newly out, after all, and he hasn't lived in West Hollywood long.  He doesn't know the rules.  Weren't you the same way, when you first moved here?"

So I gave Chazz another chance.  On Memorial Day weekend, we invited them to a barbecue, and hinted strongly that we should spend the night together.  But...nothing happened.

Kris was starring in a low-budget car-chase film called Smoke and Lightnin, and in June he invited me to a cast picnic as his "date."  A boring, heterosexist, outdoor affair, the monotony broken only by a nice sausage sighting of Christopher Atkins.

And by Kris saying: "Let's find a secluded spot and make out."

This is it!  I thought.  After two months, it is finally time to share!  

We didn't find a secluded spot during the picnic -- Christopher butted in -- but afterwards we went to the Rage, the twink bar, where we would be meeting Chazz after work (they didn't checked ids, if you were  cute).  We found a dark corner and kissed and groped.

But when Infinite Chazz arrived, we hung out for a bit, then had dinner at the Greenery and browsed at the Different Light, and went home.

No sharing!

A few days later, Lane and I left for Spain.  When we returned, I called to invite Infinite Chazz and Kris to lunch.

"Kris is still on location in Florida," Chazz explained.  "And anyway, we're not boyfriends anymore, so you'll have to invite him separately."

"You broke up? Why?"

"The oldest story in the book, Dad: I found out he was unfaithful.  Someone caught him in the act, and told me, but he didn't deny it."

"Sex with other guys!" I exclaimed, pretending to be horrified.  So they were monogamous after all!

"Oh, no, sex would be ok.  We had an open relationship, like you and Lane.  But I had a basic rule: no romance. No falling in love."

"And..?"

"He and this other guy were kissing!" I imagined Chazz's face contorted with disgust.  "Can you believe it?"

Suddenly I realized that I had gone down on Chazz a dozen times, but never kissed him.  It was the most intimate of activities in the gay world, far more intimate than oral or anal, often reserved for one's boyfriend.

So...that day at the Rage, Kris and I jumped past the "play" of simple erotic contact to romance...

"I don't know who the other guy was," Chazz said softly.  "My friend didn't recognize him, and Kris wouldn't say.  But if I ever find out..."

Gulp!

"So I have a question," I said.  "You were dating for two months.  Why didn't you ever invite us to share?"

"Why, were you into it?  You're always talking about how much you like black guys, Asians, Hispanics, swarthy Mediterranean types like Lane.  I didn't think you liked redheads.  I didn't want to put you on the spot."

See also: A Sausage Sighting of Christopher Atkins