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Avia S-199 in Israeli Air Force Service

I almost killed my wife

Stuart and his fiancee, Barbara, took us out for supper last night. I may have eaten more beef at one sitting than I ever have before.

It was a night of unintentional, mostly, double entendres. The restaurant displays fantastic cuts of meat in a meat counter by the front door. Some of the cuts are amazing, and not only for their size. One hunk of unsliced T-bone was so well aged, it looked almost like cheese.

When we first arrived, the maitre-d’ told us we would have to wait for the hostess to return from the second floor before we could be seated. The wife told him, “That’s OK. We’ll just look at your meat.” In case anyone missed the unintentional pun, she laughed for five minutes to put an exclamation point on it.

But that’s not how she nearly died.

The waiters wore nifty black and white ties with a horse motif. Stuart wanted one, but the restaurant was out of stock. New, they cost $60. One waiter said he would for $20 sell us the tie off his neck at the end of his shift, at 10:30. We finished our meal, took a walk, and still returned with 15 minutes to wait.

We decided to have drinks in the restaurant bar. The waiter there sold us on flavoured coffees. My wife and Barbara decided on the coffee that, he informed us, “had a shot of Frangelico, with the flavour of nuts.”

This description was the first step on path that almost led to my lovely wife’s demise.

The coffees arrived, top high with freshly whipped cream. I had ordered something with Tia Maria and brandy, for, as I commented, I didn’t think I was up to drinking something flavoured with our waiter’s nuts.

You see where this is going, don’t you?

Barbara wondered whether the whipped cream on top belonged to the waiter as well, or if it was artificial. I said, “It’s real. It takes a little longer, but it’s worth it.”

And this is how I nearly killed my wife.

She thought that was really funny. So funny, in fact that it caused her to expel most of the air in her lungs into the coffee that she was about to sip. The lion’s share of the whipped cream – were lions to actually share whipped cream instead of keeping it for themselves – the lion’s share retained coherence. The glob of cream flew up in the air, turning slowly above my wife’s head, as if some prehistoric Australopithecine pastry chef had tossed it up in triumphant celebration of the invention of mille-feuilles or tiramisu.

It rotated. Time slowed down, allowed us the leisure of examining every bump and valley on the glob’s surface. Then it fell into her lap.

In addition to the satellite of cream, streamers blew back from the cup to cover my wife’s face and hair, like some sort of dairy bukkake, not that I would know anything about things like that, or link to them.

I hear my audience: what a lovely yet not fatal picture you paint!

Here’s the dangerous part. After expelling the contents of her lungs, my wife, being not quite superhuman enough to go without oxygen, breathed in. Deeply. The concentration of cream per liter of air in the vicinity of her intakes exceeded all known government safety standards.

Her hair had fallen over her face, and she was shaking. We all thought she was laughing. We all laughed with her. In fact, she was choking on whipped cream that had lodged in her trachea. Five seconds later, she coughed up the cream, and continued laughing.

Great fun was had by all.

Bonus restaurant review:

We went to Chez Queux for lunch today. We got our table at 1:00, three of us were served our salads at 2:00, and the other three received a hamburger, poutine, and chicken nuggets another 15 minutes later. And the food wasn’t even that great.

If the Intardnet is good for anything, this post will warn off people from going there for lunch.

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