Most of us are familiar with the saying, “you can’t cry over spilled milk.” It simply means to avoid expressing regret over something that has already happened. The first historical reference to the phrase appears in a document written by British historian James Howell in 1659. However, what happens if it’s a spilled martini? – there has to be some regret. Doesn’t there? It happened to me last night at dinner, as my server suddenly stumbled while delivering my XXX martini (eXtra dirty, eXtra dry, eXtra olives). James Bond liked his “shaken not stirred” but never spilled. Admittedly, it’s usually me that spills things because of my shaky hands, so as the cold liquid hit my lap I was caught completely off-guard. It was only about a third of the glass that emptied, so he apologized but failed to offer it as complimentary. I did not get mad (or cry afoul) but I was definitely. Sometime shortly after he offered a dry napkin, but no suggestion of free dessert. There I sat with wet jeans and a reduced amount of alcohol, waiting for my meal. I suppose that if I had made a bigger fuss, I would have been compensated in some way through a visit from his manager. There was no harm done since vodka doesn’t stain, so I let it go. I didn’t even dock his tip once my second martini arrived without incident. To quote another familiar saying, “let bygones be bygones.” Well maybe not…here I am writing about it. 

Yesterday started and ended with a table by the Wilamette (Damnit) River. I met a long lost acquaintance for breakfast at the Kimpton Riverplace and had dinner with my wife at McCormick’s and Schmick’s, where I didn’t cry over my spilled martini. With Buffalo Wild Wings in between, it was a step-up from my normal routine of watching Treme, the College World Series, or some other television event, and eating a can of soup. Speaking of the HBO show, Treme, I’m now in the 3rd season. When my martini spilled last night, I’ll I could think of was the former New Orleans chef who threw a Sazerac cocktail in the face of a New York food critic after he dissed French Quarter cuisine in the midst of the Katrina after-mass.  She thought it was a cheap shot at her fellow restaurateurs who were struggling to keep their heads above water. Her spill was intentional while mine was accidental – I think. 

My wife and I finished the 2nd season of the intense Hulu series, The Handmaid’s Tale, last night after my lap martini. She was glad to get a tough week of work out of the way, but enjoyed taking our younger schnauzer Tally to the office. “Texas Tally,” as she was referred to in the news segment she was part of, was exhausted when she finally got home. The sad thing was that her older sister Tinker probably never realized she was gone for the day. We sneaked Tally out of the house in the morning by distracting Tinker, and when Tally returned Tinker was out cold in my office. It was a far cry from the old days when Tinker would bark and tear things up when she was left alone. Poor Tinker only gets up now when I head to the refrigerator or when I drag her outside. Food is what she lives for in her fragile old age.  I did push her around the neighborhood this morning in her stroller, as my wife and I exchanged turns with each dog during our traditional weekend “Schnauzerthon” relay. With that task now out of the way, I’m ready for a martini!