The chutzpah of the Norwegian veteran

Office mate and resident genius Moshe made good on a promise to take me to lunch. Since it was his treat I decided to eschew our normal lunchtime establishments of Rubio's, et. al., instead selecting a dining experience at The Barrel Room.

We had just been served our food when a well-dressed man entered the restaurant. He wore a white fedora that matched his white shoes, a seersucker suit of vintage quality, a shirt and a tie. He carried a small, soft-sided attache case.

He had the most pleasant smile upon his face. We put his age at mid-seventies. He approached our table, the smile beaming, and asked, "Do you have a few dollars that you can spare a Norwegian veteran?"

While I didn't have to give Moshe the Heimlich Maneuver it was a rum thing. I sure that my face betrayed a similar sense of shock.

If the fellow had been in his teens or early twenties I might have ascribed this brazen request as a high school prank or college fraternity pledge ordeal gone awry. But when someone older than your dad panhandles you during lunch hour at a fairly nice restaurant...

We refused to give the Norwegian veteran any cash, hopefully with a smile as warm as the one he laid on us. Undeterred, he made his way to a half-dozen other tables until one of the waiters escorted him off the premises. No fuss, no argument, knowing the jig was up, he walked in as serenely as he entered.

For the curious, the answer is no. His accent was more Midwestern than anything, certainly no trace of the Scandinavian countries about him, no sing-song lilt of Norway.

Moshe sat dumbfounded for most of the remainder of the meal.

And that reminds me of another bizarre restaurant experience. This time I was eating breakfast with a couple of friends at the decidedly downmarket IHOP. Sitting at the table next to us was a man elegantly dressed in a suit and tie. He had an attache case at his feet, a silk tie knotted against the closed collar of a blinding-white shirt. He devoured both his breakfast and The Wall Street Journal.

The breakfast was one of those heart-clogging one-from-every-column offerings. Eggs, potatoes, three kinds of meat, pancakes, syrup, the bottomless cup of coffee and a small glass of OJ.

The man finished his breakfast, patted his lips and then bolted out of the fire door into the alley at a full sprint. By the time the waitress knew what happened he was out of sight, having skipped on the check.

So, you know what you now have to do? Use the Comments link to send me your best restaurant story.