PAUL DAVIS: Happy birthday just for the four of us

My bride had her first birthday of the year last week. That date usually is a festive occasion with a great party, great friends and great food. I’m not sure if she was in a funk, or worried about the economy, but she nixed the party idea. Knowing we have to buy a new refrigerator, I figured she was just being frugal. I suggested that we sell three shares of Colonial Bank stock and just split a happy meal from McDonald’s dollar menu. She didn’t think that was cute.

I had purchased for her a nice pair of earrings, and I didn’t know how to make the presentation in the drive-through lane with Ronald sitting on that bench and starring at us.

I turned over all the arrangements to her. I couldn’t even remember if this was her 36th or 39th birthday. She said either one would do, but the party was going to be at a good restaurant with “just you and me, babe.”

I got the name of the restaurant and called ahead to have a dozen long-stem red roses to brighten up the place. I put the earrings in the pocket of my best suit and we were on our way.
We pulled into a parking spot right out front and were ushered smartly to our table of roses and then, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a guest at our table, one of my bride’s best girl friends. “But, I thought this was to be. ...”

Hush, she said swiftly. “I decided I needed someone to talk to.” And talk they did. They ordered my appetizer, my entree, my drink, my dessert. I interrupted once when I asked, please, for salt. They didn’t miss a beat. A hand simply slid the salt across the table. Was it me or them?

I waited three minutes, worked up my nerve and asked for the pepper. That drew a pause and glare from both.

In self defense I struck up a lively conversation with the manager, a handsome, bearded young man named Paul Hufstetler.

The restaurant is called Zazu and is located across the street from the now-closed Hamilton’s on Magnolia. The owner and executive chef is Graham Hage.

I had not been in that building in years. The restaurant changed hands about as often as a U-Haul truck.

The last time I went, there were plywood booths, pool tournaments going on in the back, beer flowing and folks all around with more body piercing than a Vietnam vet returning from war. I believe you might have been able to get a tattoo while you waited for your greasy chicken wings.

It’s not that way now. The food and the service at Zazu were outstanding.

The conversation between the girls was busy, busy, busy. With Hufstetler, it was strictly all-man talk. Important stuff. The cares and ills of the world.

Oh, well. Happy 36th or 37th birthday, Gayle.