But, since my wife was dragged into this mess, I suppose I'd better set the record straight. Full disclosure and all that.
First of all, despite what you might have inferred from the radio, Tia Rae had nothing to do with it. She was an innocent bystander, possibly guilty by association but certainly not by commission.
(By the way, that blabber mouth on the radio - and you know who you are- should take this as fair warning that I don't get mad, I get even ... and what I write stays in print for a loooong time.)
I'd like to blame it on exhaustion or Shiner or distraction but the simple fact is: I tried to burn down Bob's Steakhouse.
Fortunately, I'm as inept at pyromania as I am at fighting fires.
Here's the whole, sordid story.
It was Friday evening about two weeks ago. Tia Rae and I were tired ... exhausted from eight long weeks of rehearsals at the community theater combined with a brutal work schedule. Since all the kids were away, we didn't have to go home and cook (not that we've done much of that this summer - but vegetables are something you don't eat unless you take time to actually prepare a meal instead of heating up sausage or opening a can of tuna).
Anyway, on this Friday evening, all I really wanted was a good steak and a cold beer - not necessarily in that order. So, we went to Bob's where they know to keep the Shiner cold and how to cook a rib eye that J. Frank Dobie would have appreciated. We barely even have to place the order, which is mighty handy when you are so tired you can hardly speak.
Before we had a chance to find a table, James Brogger sidled out from behind the register. The youngster used to work in our mailroom and spent Friday nights busing tables. It was thrilling to discover that James had not only graduated from C.H. Yoe High School in good standing but from washing dishes at Bob's: James was our waiter that night.
James came back with my Shiner and a basket of bread. While we waited patiently for our steaks, we spent a little time catching up with him.
I flipped over the paper napkin that had wrapped the bread and buttered a piece while we visited. You know, James is a tall fellow; I remember craning my neck to keep up with our conversation.
Suddenly, a brilliant flare of light danced between us.
"Uh, that's on fire," Tia Rae said, pointing to the breadbasket, her voice tinged with the tenor of mild hysteria.
I glanced down at the breadbasket and saw that, sure enough, I had carefully draped the paper napkin across the sugar dish and over the candle in the middle of the table. As I watched, flames spread from the candle, kissed the sugar packets and engulfed the breadbasket. The scoop of butter, which was nearby, developed a shiny glaze.
James, bless him, tried to smother the fire with his tray, his eyes growing larger by the moment.
Mary Beth, one of the waitresses, raced over and whisked the flaming sugar packets away. A brief flurry of activity by the rest of the staff saw all flames extinguished before I could think to do something really brilliant like grab a handy bottle of whisky and pour it over the flaming bread.
I remained rather calm throughout the incident; my sole effort at fire control was blowing on the flaming sugar packets, a monumentally unhelpful and ineffective action as it merely fanned the fire and spread bits of charred paper onto the melted butter and across to an adjacent table.
A few minutes later, James returned with a fresh basket of bread, this one helpfully labeled, "Caution, contents is combustible." One of his cohorts kindly placed an industrial grade fire extinguisher on the corner of our table.
We've been back to Bob's since. They actually let us in, though they thoughtfully blew out all the candles in the vicinity.
This column was published August 14, 2003 in the Cameron Herald.
