Coming up with sitcoms
On a week night, of all nights.
We are celebrating your birthday here at a hatted restaurant, the first dish into our degustation dinner, and laughing along at the frivolity of it all. For the first time in a long time, since the birth of our child, we are alone again. You sip your crisp Friulano with the wild abandon of a mother who has expressed enough milk to last the next three hours. I wonder whether people can tell if we have a child or not, surely we look too cool and young to be parents, you say.
The cold stem of our marble table separates us from playing footsies. What a quaint place. Conversation flows to our surprise, you weren’t sure whether or not we would know what to talk about if not about our son, and the early night is warming with each dish placed upon our hungry eyes.
“This is a Carpaccio of Kangaroo Loin, with Truffle Pecorino, Rocket, Wattle Seed, and Sourdough. Bouon appetito.”
Delicately I pull apart my napkin and arrange the cutlery by the sides of our plates. As I serve you your first taste of Skippy Carpaccio, I bring up the sitcom we were hoping to write together.
“So, let’s talk about these situational gags. How about we warm up with some exercises?”
“…think of a situation and character, then we can think of some gags to begin with.”
The carpaccio was tender, delicate. I wrap the meat around my fork, trying to get a part of each element of the dish into the single bite. I take my first taste and give you the ‘wow, this is great’ look while working through our first jokes.
“Ok, a truck driver at a fancy restaurant.” you say, “How about if, as he’s eating, a waiter comes to the table and hands him a CB Radio, saying ‘A call for you sir’.”
I smile and wondered how I didn’t think of that, whilst marvelling at the simplicity of the joke. Brilliant. We discuss other set ups to gags through the next two courses, becoming ever more audible as we ease into our roles as ‘a couple out at dinner’.
“This dish has just recently won the best dish award by The Australian.” the waiter interrupts. He delicately presents a Squid Ink Sardinian dish with Mussel Butter. Wow.
“How about, the truck driver hands his ticket stub to the valet, who asks him what car is his… while in the background you can see a big wheeled tru…” You interrupt me and say “Nup, too obvious and taking too long.”
We laugh through black teeth at each other.
“So, if we base one of the characters on Nelson, we should call him Wilson. Yeah, he’s a bit of a character…”
Our conversations float in and out of sitcoms and gags. We talk about the past. We talk about the future. Sometimes we stop talking and begin to notice the subtleties of the restaurant — the food blogger scribbling through his notepad next to us, the waiter scratching through his white sock while rolling through the ingredients of the Char-Grill Wagyu, the high pitched conversations about trying tripe for the first time floating from the table behind you — I soon begin to notice us.
Us, sitting in by the entrance of this dark restaurant, talking about a make believe sitcom. By the fourth glass of Italian regional wine our conversations become more audible and we enjoy talking about creating a TV show. Not because we believe in the sitcom. Not because we think we tell great jokes. Not because anything at all other than being able to talk to each other.
In the privacy of our table by the corner it is just you, me, and the restaurant tonight. No way, I don’t think anyone can tell that we’re parents. We’re having too much fun.
