I Still Have It. . . I Just Can't Remember Where I Put It by Rita Rudner

door for me.
    “Welcome to Auravooshi.”
    Martin handed the valet his car keys. The juvenile advanced our car three feet, got out, and closed the door.
    “I could have done that,” Martin whispered. “Then I wouldn’t have had to give a twelve-year-old the keys to my very nice car.”
    The young woman who greeted us at the hostess’s podium was clad in a black turtleneck minidress and wearing the sort of microphone mouthpiece employed by the likes of Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera.
    “Are these singing waitresses?” I whispered to my husband.
    “I don’t know,” he whispered back, spotting a man on the restaurant floor wearing a black suit and apparently speaking into his breast pocket. “To me they look like they’re working for the CIA.”
    “Rudner. Party of two for ten-thirty,” I said politely.
    “The hostess’s lacquered red fish lips parted and said, “It’ll be a few minutes.”
    She then turned away and whispered something into her mouthpiece.
    Martin turned and whispered into my earpiece.
    “She’s telling someone we’re too old and to sit us in a dark corner. I don’t like it here. Let’s go.”
    “I told you, we can’t cancel. They’ll report us to the police.”
    “We’re not canceling. We showed up, they didn’t have our table ready, and we left. No judge will convict us.”
    We waited another ten minutes.
    “Hold on a second. They have our MasterCard number and our car. Maybe this is just a front and they’re out driving around and charging things to our credit card.”
    Just then a tattooed, multiply pierced, goateed CIA operative approached us.
    “Mr. and Mrs. Rubner? We have your table ready now. Follow me.”
    As we entered the spooky room, my attention was caught by a wall that appeared to be on fire.
    “That’s interesting,” I remarked.
    “It’s a new projection technique. There are only four reactive projectors in the world and we own two.”
    “Who owns the other two?” I asked.
    “Unfortunately, the restaurant across the street,” he replied.
    I tripped over a large round object.
    “Excuse me,” I said to the beanbag chair.
    “Would you like to sit in our casual room or our table-dining room?”
    “As much as I’d like to eat off the floor, let’s try table dining,” my husband said.
    We felt our way to a long, low leather banquette situated in front of a sparsely set table. We wedged ourselves into the small space between them and then attempted to adjust our backsides on the cow-covered cushions.
    “Are you cool? Sometimes people your age need extra pillows for lumbar support.”
    “We’re very cool,” I replied, ignoring my spine’s plea for help.
    “Brish will be your waiter.”
    “Are you sure this wasn’t one of the Ten Most Uncomfortable Restaurants in L.A.?” I asked Martin as our escort disappeared into the darkness.
    A shadow appeared over our dimly lit table. In the gloom, I discerned the outline of a looming human figure.
    “Hello, my name is Brish. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have about the menu.”
    “OK, Brish. Here’s the first one. Where is it?”
    “You’re sitting on it.”
    Evidently, a popular new game being played at restaurants around the country is Find the Menu. Sitting down for lunch with an old friend a few weeks ago, I reached for what I thought was the napkin under my silverware and sneezed into a list of foods available that day.
    Neither Martin nor I had brought a flashlight, so were unable to read our menus. I was therefore forced to utter a sentence I’d never imagined I would ever say.
    “We’re in your hands, Brish.”
    Brish proceeded to recommend and order his favorite dishes: a raw fish cocktail served in a martini glass, a whole fish cooked in a lampshade, and chocolate antennae for dessert.
    When we arrived back at our car, my husband tipped the valet, slid into an electronically repositioned seat, peered into a readjusted mirror, and turned on a rap station he’d never