“Dripping lobster arms.”
“No.”
“Dried leaves from Argentina?”
“No.”
“Oh! Dried leaves from Ar-hen-tina.”
“Still no.”

Carla and Alec had used the better part of a half-hour trying to guess my new menu item. Part of the fun of creating a new dish is naming it, and I, pun intended, relish every moment. It had become a custom of mine to introduce a “mystery meal” once a year, unveiled on the restaurant’s anniversary date. The names are always cryptic, but, this year, I used just three letters.

“D-L-A? For nineteen bucks?” Alec turned his eyebrows up at the sample menu I’d handed him. “What is the D-L-A?”
“Take a guess,” I’d quipped, and then thirty minutes of my life vanished to inanity.

“Danish lobster arms.”
“No. It’s not any arms.”
“Dill lamb arsenic.”
“No.”
“Donuts left alone.”
“No…t yet.”
“D-”
“Alright! I can’t stand this anymore. Do you just want to know what D-L-A means?”
“YES!!”
“Ok. We have our anniversary dinner-”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”

Alec flung the menu at me, and they both stormed out the door.