My wife, Maria, is next to impossible to surprise. Not because she sleuths around and figures stuff out. It’s because I absolutely suck at surprises. I always manage to blow the surprise somehow. I inadvertently give something away, like she comes across an email or text not meant for her, my kids blurt something out accidentally even though I tell them not to, or I just look at her funny one time and she’s on to me. She can, I believe, see my thoughts, which is scary. But I keep trying to surprise her. Why? I’m not sure. Maybe because one day I’ll get it right and I’ll induce happy tears and the affectionate wrap-around hug and kisses I so desperately crave for my cunning and brilliance. Just once I want to move her like this. Just once I want her to see me as that kind of husband. Just once.
The problem, though, is that Maria is the practical and pragmatic one in our relationship; I’m the emotional expressive one. She’s methodical and measured. I’m a nuclear explosion. She’s a mellow Pinot Noir. I’m Pop Rocks mixed with soda. She’s a straight line. I’m a twisted knot. She spies the goodness and light in everything. I can spot the melancholy darkness in any silver lining. She plays things close the vest and values privacy. I expose my life (and now hers!) to the world.
Even if I did pull off the surprise of the century, the most I’d likely get from her is a pretty even, “Well, you got me. I’m surprised. Now I’ve got to put together our grocery list for the weekend. Please check the pantry to see if we have any organic almond butter.” Meanwhile, I’d stand there with a journal open and pen in hand wanting to document every nuance of her expression and experience—you know, really capture the moment. The journalist in me would ask her questions like, “Were you really surprised? On a scale of one to 10, how surprised were you? Is this the best surprise ever? Did you ever think I could surprise you like this? Am I not the best husband in history? What other husband goes to such great lengths to surprise his wife? Describe your happiness right now. What other times in your life have made you feel this way?” These questions, I know, would only frustrate her and, well, ruin the surprise. But I can’t not ask. For her, the act is enough, and she prefers to leave it there. For me, I need the follow-up discussion and meticulous deconstruction. I’m a Libra; she’s a Leo, if that means anything. She’s all get to the point! I’m all about the winding journey. Sometimes she reads the last page of a book first. I literally close my eyes when I pick up a new book because I don’t want to see anything on the last page. I want to be … surprised. Ah, maybe that’s it! Maybe she actually hates surprises? Hmmm … well, anyway…
This time I was going to surprise her on her birthday. My goodness, it would be the best surprise ever! I couldn’t fail. It couldn’t miss. All those tears would fall, and it’d be a moment for us to remember the rest of our lives! I was going to do it … finally!
It was a few years ago, and a new Bahama Breeze restaurant had just opened in Gainesville. Good friends of ours—the Ruperts—had given this place glowing reviews, as they had dined at several Bahama Breezes in other parts of Florida. “You guys are gonna love it,” was their steady refrain during the months leading up to its opening. Their build-up made Maria and me think the place was going to be a 5-star Taj Mahal filled with the Michelin Guide’s finest chefs. We couldn’t wait to eat there.
The plan, simply enough, was to whisk Maria and our two young kids to Bahama Breeze and meet up with the Ruperts for a lovely dinner and conversation. Maria values her close friendships, so think of the hero I was going to be knowing that I had thought of including the Ruperts in on my master plan! We’d all feast on a spectacular dinner, guzzle down drinks and keep the laughter flowing. Certainly during dessert Maria would regale the Ruperts with how surprised she was, and that, for once, I had not blown it. I saw it all play out in my head, and it was beautiful. And at the end of the evening, those tears would fall and I’d have her affectionate gratitude. Yes, it would all play out just like that … perfectly executed by a loving husband who’s only desire was his wife’s happiness.
All day during her August 10th birthday, I played it casual and loose, saying she could pick wherever she wanted to go for dinner, as going out for a birthday dinner is a tradition in my family. So, dinner out, mind you, would not be the surprise. Dinner out with the Ruperts at Bahama Breeze—the best restaurant in the world!—would be the surprise.
My feigned aloofness irritated Maria because she thought I hadn’t put any effort into planning ahead for her birthday, so she reluctantly and defeatedly deferred to me to choose. “Just pick a place,” she lamented. “I don’t care where we go.” The dejection in her voice was clear. This reaction, of course, elated me. My surprise was working perfectly. The worse she felt about the impending evening, the more heroic I’d be once it all played out as planned. You could not have found more sound logic in the ancient Aeropagus.
At dinner time we all hopped in the car and started driving toward Archer Road’s Butler Plaza, the place of ubiquitous chain restaurants. The evening was hot and muggy, and the asphalt was wet from passing thunderstorms. Lacklusterly, I began throwing out ideas during the drive—places where we had reward points—which only irritated Maria more because she now perceived me as not only being ill-prepared, but also cheap and routine. Yes! Man was I brilliant! We decided on Bonefish Grill, which was perfect because that’s near Bahama Breeze. I could drive toward Bonefish, but at the last second divert our trajectory and pull up to Bahama Beeeze. Surprise! Isn’t this awesome, Maria? Bet you never suspected a thing.
You must know that we agreed on Bonefish because Maria has battled breast cancer. As a result, she’s incredibly strict with her diet. I mean incredibly strict. She prefers to eat mostly fish and fresh vegetables. Carbs and certain starches are like the plague to her. I knew that at Bonefish the conversation with our server would go something like this:
Maria to college server: “Your Chilean sea bass, is that wild caught?”
College server: “Um, yes, I believe so.”
Maria: “So it’s not farmed raised?”
Server: “Farm raised? Um, maybe, wait, no, I don’t think so.”
“Oh, okay. Would you mind checking for me, please?”
“Um, sure.”
“Thank you. How is it prepared? Do you season it before cooking it?”
“Um, I think they put, like, maybe salt and pepper, maybe some olive oil on it?”
“Would you be able to ask in the kitchen, please?”
“Um, sure.”
“Wonderful, I appreciate that. I’d prefer it not be seasoned at all.”
“I’m sure they can do that.”
“And tell me about your fresh vegetables? Are they seasoned, and how are they prepared? Is there any pepper?”
“Pepper?”
You get the idea. Here’s the thing: Maria is entitled to ask whatever questions she wants and ask that food be prepared to her liking. If anyone has earned that privilege, she has. She’s been through Hell and back … multiple times. Extensive surgeries, chemo, scans, pills. Most likely, in her 49 years, she’s had more doctor visits than you will ever have in your entire life. I applaud her intentionality when it comes to her diet. And I will sit there patiently and diligently until the food comes out exactly as she wants it, no matter how many times she might have to send it back to the kitchen. I wish our servers knew why she asks so many questions. They have no idea who the hero is sitting before them.
I often feel the urge to become fiercely protective of Maria while she orders. If I ever sensed the slightest hesitation or resistance from the server, I would probably kick out a chair and invite our server to have a seat for a quick discussion. “Hey, um, Lacy is it? Is that what your name tag says? Okay, good. So, Lacy, here’s the thing. I get why you would rather not list every ingredient in every dish you serve, nor have to describe how everything is prepared. You probably don’t know, and you have a zillion tables to attend to right now. Believe me, I get it. I’ve waited tables before. But this woman you see sitting before you … well, here it is, Lacy. She has been down some roads.” That’s how I’d start that conversation.
As we approached Butler Plaza, I pointed the car toward Bonefish. But up ahead on the left was Bahama Breeze. We’d pass right by it. We stopped at a traffic light, and Bahama Breeze was right in front of us. Maria saw it and exploded with irrepressible joy. “Wait, there’s Bahama Breeze!” she cried, pointing and gesturing feverishly. “It’s now open. Forget Bonefish! I want to go there! That’s the place the Ruperts have been telling us about!” It was this rare expression of excitement and giddiness that I was going for, and now here it was, filling the front passenger seat of the car. The Hallelujah Choir began singing in my head. It would only get better from here. I couldn’t have felt prouder of my planning. I am the perfect husband!
Still, I played it off to achieve maximum effect. I yawned. “Oh, yeah, Bahama Breeze. I’ve heard that’s good. I mean, I suppose we can go there if you want. Sure you don’t want Bonefish?” The traffic light up ahead was still red, and we were in a long line of cars.
“Yes, yes! That’s where I want to go!”
“I guess, okay, then let’s go there. I hope we don’t need a reservation. They may be busy tonight. I don’t think I feel like waiting for a table.” This, of course, was clearly a ruse to throw her off, as I had already made a reservation for the Ruperts and us. Table for seven at 7:00 p.m. It was about 6:50.
The traffic light ahead still glowed red. No matter, we still had plenty of time before our reservation. I could relax and enjoy the plan unfolding.
Maria grabbed her iPhone. “Ooh, let me look up their menu online … see what kind of seafood they have.”
This made me begin to panic. I realized I had made a critical and unforgivable error in my calculations and planning. I hadn’t looked ahead at the Bahama Breeze menu. It dawned on me in that moment that Maria would take one look at the menu, read the descriptions about things smothered in sauces and spices, and immediately reject the place. At least at Bonefish she knew she’d have a fighting chance at getting her meal prepared the way she’d want it. But Bahama Breeze was an unknown quantity.
We needed to get to the restaurant fast! Is this the longest red light ever? Is there a train coming? Turn green already! I started trying to distract Maria from her phone while idling at the light. “What a beautiful sunset tonight, honey! Look at those colors of ribbons in the sky!”
“That’s great, honey. I’m trying to look at the menu.” She was pushing the page on her phone up and down with her thumb, reading intensely. I noticed her eyes narrowing and her brow furrowing. Not good.
C’mon you stupid light! Turn green! I was now convinced that this traffic light and the cars ahead were conspiring against me, like they were in on the plans to sabotage my perfect surprise. “Maria, isn’t that cool how they designed Bahama Breeze? It looks like a stone castle the way it’s rounded at the end there. See? No really, look! Interesting architecture.”
“Mm hmm … sure, great … I’m looking at the menu. They seem to smother things in sauces. Everything’s breaded. I don’t know.”
Oh Lord. I could feel the sweat collecting under my arms. My blood began to curdle. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, which felt like a pile of cinder blocks beneath my rump. Will you put your phone away! C’mon light, turn! This is longest light ever!
The light finally turned green. I jammed on the gas, which thrust all our heads backwards.
“Garrett, my word!” Maria hollered. “Slow down!”
“Sorry! I’m just really hungry.” We made a left at the light and pulled into the Bahama Breeze parking lot. “Ah, we’re here,” I said thankfully, rushing to throw the car in park and gather my things for a quick escape. “Maria, put your phone down and help me get the kids out of the car.” Her thumb was still fully engaged with scrolling through the menu. And her eyes … scanning, reading, absorbing. Conflict was in them. And dare I say, maybe even a bit of disgust.
“I don’t know, Garrett. I’m not seeing anything on the menu I’d enjoy. It’s all sauces and breading and heavy stuff. Let’s go to Bonefish. Don’t park. Turn around. I want to go to Bonefish.”
I parked the car anyway. A table set for seven, the Ruperts and a delightful evening were waiting inside.
“What are you doing?” Maria asked. “I said I don’t want to go here. Why are you parking?”
I hung my head and gripped the steering wheel tightly. My kids remained silent in the back seat. I had told them the plan. They knew what was awaiting Mommy inside.
Maria tried again. “Garrett? Why are you parking? Let’s go to Bonefish. This place doesn’t look good at all.”
I had no words.
Then it dawned on her. She stared out the windshield and pursed her lips. “You made a reservation here, didn’t you? The Ruperts are meeting us, aren’t they?” Her tone was dry and firm.
As I said from the beginning, I can’t surprise Maria. She figured this out on her own. “Um … well….” I sensed her eye roll more than saw it.
“Well,” she acquiesced as she opened the door, “I guess this is where we’re eating. C’mon kids.”
I called out after her as we made our way to the entrance, “You’ll find something on the menu. There’s gotta be something.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Well, maybe they can do something custom for you.”
“We’ll see.”
The Ruperts greeted us cheerfully at our table with, “Isn’t this great! Bahama Breeze! Maria’s birthday! What a night, eh? A night to celebrate! It will be hard to choose what to eat since there’s so much good stuff on the menu.” I wasn’t so sure.
We sat down. I did my best to smile at Maria, who was now poring over the hardcopy menu with noticeable skepticism. Our server arrived. Likely a college student, maybe named Lacy. Clearly no match for what Maria was about to lay on her.
Maria ordered grouper, but took several minutes to describe to Lacy—with expansive hand gestures—exactly how it should be prepared. No sauce. No breading. No spices of any kind. Grilled, but not overcooked, because that’s when the fishiness comes out. Lacy was scribbling notes so fast I thought her paper was going to catch fire. Maria calmly and respectfully repeated the instructions several times, convinced, I believe, that nothing she was relaying would come to fruition. Poor Lacy. I felt sorry for her, but even sorrier for Maria and myself. I had no confidence that this was going to turn out right.
The chatter around the table while we waited for our food was spirited and friendly, though I was sitting there with my intestines tied up. And then Lacy came with our food. Maria’s fish, as expected, came out smothered in sauce and coated in breading. Somewhere in the muck were some vegetables. Her plate probably weighed fifteen pounds and would crack a navicular bone in her foot had she dropped it.
As we made jovial conversation around the table, I watched Maria scrape off the sodden layers of breading and viscous sauce to reveal a sad and modest hunk of once-smothered fish. Her face was screwed up in agony like she was changing a baby’s diaper. She took a small bite—the kind where you lean forward, barely insert the fork into your mouth and scrape off the contents with your front teeth—and then went into her “tell” of when she finds food objectionable. She laid her fork across her plate, sat perfectly erect and smiled politely. She brought her napkin to her mouth to discreetly discard the noisome bite she had just taken, then balled it into her fist and rested her fist in her lap. I, meanwhile, was attacking my citrus chicken salad with abandon, doing my best to keep the mood light and convince her that I had taken her to a great place to eat. The sheen on my forehead was from light perspiration.
At the table, I made no mention of Maria’s disdain for her meal. I refrained from asking how she liked it. Mercifully, so did everyone else. I think they all knew. Maria didn’t have the energy to try again with Lacy to get the order right. When Lacy came to collect our plates and noticed that Maria’s was still mostly full, even she refrained from addressing the matter. There are moments in life where it’s just best not to say anything.
My only hope was that dessert would salvage the evening. The Ruperts had told us that “Bahama Breeze makes an exceptional key lime pie,” which is Maria’s favorite. Though she does not often eat dessert because of her strict diet, I was sure she was still hungry and needed to eat something to help her not pass out from hunger.
Her slice of pie arrived … with a good five inches of meringue topping it off. You guessed it: Maria hates meringue. She scraped off the offending fluff and attempted to make it through the pie. The result was the same as the fish. After a couple of trying bites, she laid down her fork and pushed the plate aside.
On the drive home, Maria said the only obvious thing: “I love what you tried to do.”
“Who puts that much meringue on key lime pie? My meal was good, if it’s any consolation.”
We both laughed. Hard.
I haven’t tried to surprise Maria very often since then. I haven’t had to. Unfortunately, life has dealt both of us enough surprises. But we’ve now made Wahoo Grill our go-to seafood restaurant, where they know how to prepare an impeccably sublime filet of grilled red snapper for Maria, the pickiest eater but strongest cancer survivor I know.
(For the record, Bahama Breeze is a fine restaurant!)