Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,102

drives down sidewalks. Minutes later, he violently swings the cab onto the side of the road.

“Here we are at Bri!” He flashes a toothy grin. “Very popular among the locals. And by the way, you two look like a beau-ti-ful couple. Enjoy your evening,” he says regally.

“Thanks, Vijay, it was so nice to meet you,” I say, inching across the back seat. For some odd reason, I don’t correct Vijay about us being a ‘couple.’ Neither does Mika, I observe.

Mika pays the fare and I notice him slipping Vijay a hefty tip.

Chalk another point for Mika. I’m glad he’s no cheapo.

Sauntering into Bri, I realize Mika is anything but cheap. My goodness! This place is going to break his Belgian bank account.

My bug eyes sweep across the golden gilded room and I find myself mesmerized by its opulence and grandeur. It’s splendidly baroque and ornately orchestrated. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceilings, tufted chairs are tucked into alcoves, a roaring fire glimmers and glows in the score of reflections in the room.

Inclining my head toward Mika, I whisper, “I didn’t know we were attending the Tsar Ball at Catherine Palace.”

He places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me. “I couldn’t afford the plane ticket to Saint Petersburg, so this will have to suffice.”

Within minutes, we’re seated by a burlesque-y hostess who bears a striking resemblance to Dita Von Teese.

I stare after Dita as she sashays off. Leaning forward, I ask in a hushed voice, “Mika, do you think she’s cute?”

“I think you’re cute,” he says without missing a beat.

I scoff at his deflection. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Smiling, he shakes his head and consults the menu.

I do the same.

Seconds later, he pops his head over the tall menu. “Shall we go for the tasting menu?”

“Let’s go for it,” I say robustly.

As if on cue, two posh waiters materialize at our table and introduce themselves as Juan and Steve.

Juan takes our orders and nods approvingly. “Our chefs only use the freshest, local ingredients.”

Steve concurs with his team mate. “Yesssss. And all the food prepared here is organic and sustainable.”

My eyes shimmer. “Sustainable? How splendid.”

At first the trend was organic food, and now a new one has snuck up on me—Sustainable!

And I’m a complete sucker for it all. Trust Mika, being an eco-friendly guy, to pick a green restaurant.

After our orders are placed, Juan and Steve magically fade into the wallpaper. Leaning back against the plush seat, I gaze at the Jackson Pollock-like artworks that line the walls.

Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 2 in F major plays softly in the background, set in perfect harmony to the romantic and whimsical ambiance.

Wait a minute.

Or is this Concerto Number 3 in G major?

I perk my ears up, straining to listen. But I can no longer tell.

To my absolute horror, I discover that I am tone deaf.

Egad! My ears have been ravaged by that call center! Eight years of piano lessons washed down the drain!

Mika watches me closely, and I can tell by the look on his face that he’s slightly alarmed by my state of distress. He clears his throat. “So, what do you think of this place?”

“What’d you say?” I rub my damaged ears, and soothe myself with the thought that although Beethoven was tone deaf, he was one of the greatest pianists of all time.

“What do you think of this place?” he repeats.

Basking in the candlelight, I gush, “It’s magical.”

Moments later, Juan and Steve appear by our sides and serve our first entrée simultaneously. They lift the silver lids off the platters in perfect synch, as synchronized as two dolphins at SeaWorld. Their timing is perfect and their tricks flawless.

Wow. This place is surreal, like a cross between SeaWorld and dining. And come to think of it, they do have such a thing at SeaWorld. It’s called Dinner with Shamu. Only difference is, this is fine dining with our waiters Steve and Juan.

The first entrée is Escargots à la Bourguignonne.

“Um...” I stare uncertainly at the escargot that’s swimming in some sort of garlic buttery sauce. “Mika, you can have mine if you want.”

He spoons a snail into his mouth. “You don’t like escargot?”

The look on my face says it all. “Don’t you love euphemisms? If they called it snails, I bet you no one would eat it.”

“I would.” He takes another bite to prove his point. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Maddy.”

“Yeah I do,” I say with a faint smirk. “Sorry, Mika, but I’m pretty ghetto. I don’t have