Margaritas and matrimony

Wednesday evening. We were having dinner, something my wife and I do almost every night. This particular dinner was being had at Avila’s El Ranchito on Placentia Avenue, a place where we can often be found. I don’t know how Maria Elena Avila does it, but she always comes up with the perfect blend of community activism, incredible carnitas, excellent service and the best margaritas in the Western Hemisphere, which is a huge hemisphere.

The first part of the dinner was uneventful. Then a funny thing happened, although funny is a relative term. We were sitting in a booth, chipping, dipping, chatting, trying to avoid the dreaded frozen margarita brain freeze.

By the way, do you know what causes brain freeze? Let me tell you. There is something near the roof of your mouth called the sphenopalatine nerve; it’s like a built-in thermostat. When your mouth cools off too quickly, the sphenopalatine nerve thinks you’re about to freeze to death and orders your vascular system to pump as much blood as possible to your brain. The blood vessels in your face expand quickly, and painfully, and voila ? brain freeze. As soon as the roof of your mouth warms up, the vessels return to normal and the brain freeze is over.

Where were we? Wait, don’t tell me. El Ranchito.

Gradually, I could hear a nearby conversation heating up, slowly at first then reaching a boil. At first I thought it was two people joking around, but the voices got a little too loud, and at least one voice sounded a little too agitated.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw that the source of the hubbub was a couple sitting in the booth directly behind us. The first words I could hear clearly were from the woman, in a hoarse whisper, “Don’t ? don’t you dare! I swear I will walk out of here.”

I could also feel and hear the woman sliding around the booth, trying to get out. OK, I thought. It’s a couple having a blowout. We’ve all been there, done that, an awkward moment, not much fun for the combatants or the observers. Such is life.

Then I heard the man’s voice, pleading, almost desperate, “No, don’t. You can’t. Don’t!”

Great, I thought. This thing is going south, soon it’s a 911 call, there’s cops and crying but no carnitas. Everyone in the place has their eyes glued on the drama, except me, who can’t see a thing because it’s all happening directly over my shoulder, and I’d have to do a Jerry Mahoney to see anything.

All my information is coming from my wife, Sharyn, who has a field-level, diamond-club view of the action and is whispering reports that the man is standing beside the booth, holding back his girlfriend/wife/not sure with one hand and waving with the other to get everyone’s attention, at which point he makes an announcement to the entire margarita-sipping, salsa-dipping assembly.

“Everybody, listen, sorry,” he says. “Can I have your attention for one second? I just want everyone here to know that I absolutely love this woman! I’m telling you, I love this woman!”

At which point I can hear the woman say, mostly to herself, “Oh my God, please, no.”

OK, I say to myself. It’s a Tom Cruise moment, ill advised on the “Oprah Winfrey Show” and an even worse idea in a crowded restaurant, but then, affairs of the heart are a tricky business, even if you’re not a Scientologist.

Just when I’m thinking that the pageant of the margaritas is over, the man says, “Wait, does anyone around here happen to have some flowers? How about a ring? Anyone?” at which point, one of the hosts walks over with roses and a small box.

Oh, OK, now we all know what’s going on. Lots of applause and awwws ensue; it’s an American classic ? the surprise proposal.

My wife reports that the man has dropped to the mandatory one-knee position, ring in hand, and I hear him say, “Peggy Sue, will you marry me?” except her name wasn’t really Peggy Sue. I made that up.

By now, the place is all ears, everyone straining to hear the woman’s response. Even the cooks are poking their heads through the kitchen door for the big moment. Yep, this is it. The big moment. Any second now she’s going to say, “Yes, yes, of course I’ll marry you!” forcing the words out through tears of joy. Yep, any second now.

All of a sudden I see a look on Sharyn’s face that I know well. It’s the same look she gets when I explain that we don’t need a plumber because I have lots of tools and I am not an idiot.

“What’s the matter?” I whisper. “Not smiling,” she whispers. “This isn’t good.”

Five seconds go by, then 10. It’s quiet. Really quiet. In fact, go to the garage, get in your car and close the door. Hear that? This was quieter. “What is she doing?” I mouth to my wife.

“Can’t tell,” she whispers. “Hands on her face.”

One by one, diners turn their attention back to their chips and carne asada; the kitchen staff heads back to work. We finish our dinner as quietly as possible. As we leave, I allow myself one quick glance. The man and woman have their heads close together and there is whispering and gesturing then more whispering.

How did it end? I have no idea. But I do know this. Lawyers are trained to never ask a question to which they don’t know the answer. I think that’s also good advice for guys who are going propose in a Mexican restaurant on Placentia on a Wednesday night.

If you are not dead sure what she’s going to say, don’t ask. Or at least don’t ask in public. Or at least not until I get my carnitas. Gracias. Tengo que irme.