What Do You Do When You're Faced With Pretension

On Saturday I had the opportunity to try dining a different way.

My family and I went to Groton, MA to celebrate Mother's Day. It's a very small place called the Herb Lyceum that's only open on Friday and Saturday. They're technically not a restaurant, only seating a maximum of 30 people, and have no liquor license so it's BYOB...or anything for that matter, since all they serve to drink is water...albeit MINT water. They only have 1 seating and it's a preset 6 course meal, so for those who have difficulty ordering, it's already been decided for you. It's really more a private dinner party than a restaurant.

We were 1 minute late to arrive, my fault of course and when we walked in no one was there. We opened our own wine and was told by the "hired help" (with a full glass of win in her hand) that the rest of the guests were taking a tour of the herb gardens because it was such a beautiful night.

Wine in hand, we all traipsed back out the door and went over to the greenhouse where the owner was talking to the other group who were dining with us about the various herbs, origins, growth patterns...and oh my god who cares?

Glancing at the other party dressed to the nines and listening to their bizarre interest in herbs, I quickly discovered that I was in pretentious hell. They went on and on with their questions which eventually transformed into hearty discussions about wines and the cellar that the leader of this dullard group has.

You probably don't know my family, but while we love good food (of all pretensions), we are the furthest thing from snob. We like wine, but are nowhere close to winos. My father has long white hair that he pulls into a ponytail and is one of the most avid dirty joke/innuendo telling people I know and he's only urged by my younger brother who's not so bad himself.

We left the greenhouse and my family huddled together at the edge of the walkway as my father turned up his nose and started pointing things out as the herb leader had inside.

"See these lustrous flowers here? Those are d-a-n-d-e-l-i-o-n-s. And this," he pointed to one that had turned into a parachute ball, "is a special one that if you blow on it all your dreams will come true."

We walked down the hill and paused by a tree next to the building.

"Ahh and see this here?" He looked at the tree which had one of its limbs almost severed and pointed toward the ground, "This is a rare subterraneous tree that is grown into the ground instead of above."

As it turned out some people didn't show up so there were only 12 of us, 5 of us and 7 of them, in this small room which was just an oversized dining room of these people's house.

So needless to say, we were entirely out of our element.

But what could have been one of the most awkward of nights actually turned into one of the funniest.

We were served our "amuse" which was some sort of smoked salmon cream cheese blend served over 3 spinach leaves and garnished with 3 orange-y wedges, followed by an appetizer of shrimp friccassee with asparagus. As each course is served the chef...Chef Gregg (the Lightning) Whiting (yes he's as lame as he sounds) came out to explain in detail how each dish was made and make pretentious small talk with all of us.

The wine was flowing freely and we were two bottles deep when the soup, pea soup with chocolate mint and cream, arrived and the night finally took a turn for the better.

Chef Gregg boasted about how he personally shucked the peas one by one for the soup and our inappropriate minds started turning. My father and brother and I entered into a discussion about pea skin, which inevitably transformed into talk about pea's foreskin and eventually foreskin in and of itself.

"Do you grow peas?" My father asked our "hired help" of the night.

"I do, I have a lovely garden." My mother appropriately dubbed her the pre-school teacher, due to her mild tone and mannerism and her seemingly all-to-innocent mind.

"Do you eat them? How many do you eat in a week?" My brother and I covered our mouths because we knew what he was actually referring to.

"Oh tons, as many as I can!" She gushed.

"Do you have to peel back the skin when you eat them?" My father can be really good at keeping a straight face.

"I eat them skin and all."

We couldn't help our laughter and she was effectively deterred from returning to our table for a long time, confused about my father's banter.

The two younger girls, who were probably the owner's children came to clear our soup bowls away and my father (five vodka tonics and two glasses of wine deep) lost his filter.

"I love having little nymphs flying around clearing our plates every other minute...nymphos I mean."

As we waited for the entree of porkchops with spring onions and spicy beans my father began to talk about his fat hand.

On Friday his hand swelled up so that it's nearly twice the size. After going to the hospital and being put on antibiotics, he still finds himself with a mutant hand and therefore much conversation was based on his freakish mutation.

"I can't even take death in stride, being a monosexual, with my hand like this," he held up his hand in despair as we coughed into our glasses. "But still, it's great being a monosexual, come with me! We have unlimited resources!!"

Before the people next to us could understand what my father was referring to they brought out the main course and my family dug in before the chef came out to talk to us.

"I see some of you have already started," Chef Gregg didn't sound upset but you could tell everyone knew we didn't belong.

"Mea culpa!" my father yelled, "Punish us for not waiting for you!"

"So I went with porkchops this month, but next month I think I'm going to do filet 3-ways," he was quickly interrupted by my dad.

"Ooh I love 3-ways!" In his excitement he hit his hand on the edge of the table and cursed, "Ow, I banged my hand...well I am a monosexual, it's like a hand grenade." I could hear some nervous laughter from the other table but at this point I couldn't have cared less, tonight my father was a dirty stand-up in the most unacceptable of places and it only made everything that much funnier.

We made it through the cheese course and dessert, which was my favorite, creme brulee and the wine bottles had effectively been emptied. Small talk ensued at the other table with the chef and wino extraordinaire and as we waited for the check a small window of silence opened up.

My father decided at that moment to let loose one of the loudest farts I had ever heard from him, that vibrated the entire room.

"From one asshole to another!" He yelled and we were all still laughing hysterically as we stumbled out of the strange place and all the way home.

Perhaps it was the company we had been forced to dine with, maybe it was the establishment itself or a combo of the two but it was definitely not the place for us. The food was good, nothing terribly fantastic that I'll never forget, but at least they didn't make us bring our own plates along with drinks. I'd like to say that it wasn't worth the $270, but my family made it a night to remember and I've never loved them as much.

Happy Mother's Day!