Apologies, dear reader! I didn't realize that my earlier entry today would be so long. When I got home from today, first thing I did after doffing my work clothes and getting into my sweats was start on my web log: didn't even touch my notes, just grabbed a pack of cinnamon donettes and began my entry. Stopped when I realized I hadn't eaten dinner yet, so I quickly logged online and uploaded, then drove off to get a meatball sub, pasta salad and some chips. Bought a second sub to save, but, again, it didn't last. It's clear now that last week's pizza leftovers weren't tossed at all. Somehow this fact doesn't bother me one bit. Maybe Patti D.'s a corrupting influence, eh?

Well, I can't blame Patti entirely: spent most of Sunday, lazing around the apartment and noshing on cheese 'n' fruit. Only time I left the place was to grocery shop in the early a.m. Watched two movies on cable and rifled through a set of cookbooks I'd never cracked open before. Cookin' In the Kitchen With Carla. Renee Branch's Guilt-Free Cookery. If I'm gonna continue to be a Mystery Patron, I might as well bone up on the niceties of gourmet dining.

So what the hell am I doing? I don't know. All I can say for certain is that ever since I signed on to become a Mystery Shopper, I've been eating like there's no tomorrow. Could be I've finally found my niche, but do I want it to be? I sit here in my desk chair, look down and see a paunch I didn't have a week ago - and I think this can't go on! Then I think of Patti D., who looks down and sees nothing but belly looming ahead of her, and I think, I'm a waif compared to that! Okay, so my size fourteen dress has gotten snug. I've never ever been petite, and if I'm a bit more zaftig than I used to be, for some reason I can't find it in me to get upset. Hey, I've got Internet fetishists asking me my weight, so what's to feel bad about?

As for the day's assignment: today, Tripper sent me to a sushi bar on the edge of town - probably the only fully authentic Japanese restaurant in the area, despite the presence of a Tokyo-based auto factory. Got there in time for lunch and found the place nearly empty (Tripper assures me that they do a lot of catering for the plant's executives, but they'd like some hints on ways to lure the average Midwesterner into the place): very white with pristine oak tables. The combination waitress/hostess caught me immediately and was professionally friendly. She handed me a menu that listed twenty-three different types of fish on it.

I ordered a sample platter, and when I pointed to the menu, the waitress initially looked puzzled. "That's a dinner selection," she finally said, as if to ascertain that I could indeed read my native tongue, "for two."

"I know," I told her. "I just want to sample the best possible variety." I pulled out my allowance to assure her I was serious, so she smiled and left to deliver my order.

Not bad, I decided. She'd taken the straightforward approach, hadn't communicated any of the snooty imperiousness that I'd seen at the dress shoppe and accepted my order without any further to-do. I ate everything served, of course (though if given a choice, I wouldn't order any California rolls again - seaweed, uggh!), deciding next time to order more salmon sushi morit. I'd never eaten conch before, but I can't say that it did much for me.

Left the restaurant well fed, but before I returned home, I felt Baskin-Robbins beckoning. A couple scoops of sherbet would just the thing, I decided, to cleanse my palate. With kids still in school, the local B-R would be practically deserted. Could practically taste the sherbet on my tongue as I got in the car to drive to ice-creamland.

Changed my mind when I actually got to the counter and went for a full sundae instead. May not have cleaned my taste buds, but it sure was fun.

10/08/01
[6:02 p.m.]

Been a busy weekend. But even so, on more than one occasion, I found myself thinking of adding to this web log. Clearly, I have a majorly addictive personality! Haven't been watching too much TV at least. Too depressing these days.

Received a boggling email Saturday from someone calling himself "Ample Stuffer." He found my site via Google - the phrase "weight gain" had apparently led him to me. "How much you gained?" he wanted to know. "What was your strating [sic] weight?" He followed with a request for sundry tape measurements (what? admitting that I'm a size fourteen isn't sufficient?) I didn't know whether to be pissed off or amused. Thought of sending him a blistering reply email, but instead I've decided to make a public statement here.

So:

Sorry, gang, no vital statistics!

Now that I've gotten that out of the way, I should probably let y'all know about my combination date/bizness dinner at S.'s. Tripper was unable to get hold of the restaurant's management that Friday, so we didn't get to meet with the clients 'til Saturday. Spent Friday night, introducing myself to the night manager at D.Q. (hey, if you're a name to 'em, they won't steal your fries!), then going out to a movie by myself. Had a wading pool-sized tub of fake buttered popcorn and a Big Gulp soda: much more enjoyable than the movie itself!

Saturday morning, I spent trying to put together an outfit that didn't look like it'd split if I bent over too quickly. Outside of some sweats, the only thing I'm comfortable in is the dress I bought on assignment. Can't wear that to work every day of my life.

Felt no qualms about wearing it to S.'s, however. I figured that Tripper probably hadn't gotten tired of the look yet. We met on Saturday afternoon at the buffet parking lot, and for a moment, I almost didn't recognize my boss in his non-office garb. He looked about ten years younger, but without any loss of boss-like gravitas. Didn't know I could be so impressed with this look, but there ya go. He gave me another of those subtle once-overs, only this time I was on the lookout for it.

The restaurant was between lunch and dinner crowds, which made it convenient for Patti D., mistress of the place. Patti co-manages the restaurant with her husband Eric (who was up in Chicago for the day, unfortunately), pulling hostess duties on weekends and three nights a week, though this is the first time I've seen her. She is not, let me assure, a woman easily forgotten.

Let's just put this on the (buffet) table: the woman is Fat. Not fat in the "I could lose a few pounds" way; not fat in the "Oops, I seem to have suddenly slipped into Lane Bryant size" mode of yours truly. I'm talking fat in the sense of "I could lose two-hundred pounds and still be larger than 98% of the population!" The woman easily topped five hundred pounds.

(Calm down, Ample Stuffer, I'm not gonna give you any exact stats here either!)

She was waiting for us in the entryway, seated on a stool that I couldn't help noticing had been shortened to seat her. Long dark brunette hair, multiply dimpled face that looks like it could've come off of a Campbell's soup can, a long-sleeved top and skirt combination that neither worked to hide her size (as if any combo of blacks or horizontal stripes could have!) nor draw attention to it. She's one of those women who seem to gain weight all over, but her belly's where most of the action is. Figures that this'd be the case since she oversees a place so devoted to the pleasures of the paunch.

Yet, for a woman so huge, Miz D. is strikingly beautiful. Her entire being glows with welcoming. Once she rose and led the two of us to a private alcove away from the buffet tables ("Tonight, you'll be waited on!" she breathily announced, and from the tone of pride in her voice, I knew it was no good arguing.) We settled at a large wooden table with the requisite sturdy chairs. A plump waitress quickly appeared by our sides with a large serving cart stocked with twelve to twenty-four ounce cuts of sirloin.

What'd I select? That'd be telling.

I will say that the afternoon passed quickly and enjoyably. Patti is an exemplary hostess (she also has good taste when it comes to writing, heh: praised my report so much that I barely recognized it!) and the servings, as usual, were wonderful. For all my excitement about going out with Tripper, I have to confess I focused more on S.'s servings than anything else. Barely remember much of our table conversation after the first fifteen minutes, in fact, but I could tell you how each course tasted. The texture of the sirloin, the taste of full ricotta in the lasagna, the subtly spiced breading on the channel catfish - I savored every fork of it.

It was dark when Tripper took me home. We'd been at Patti's table for hours (couldn't tell you how much my date ate), but as we stood outside my apartment, I was already trying to figure out another way to get a dinner date with Tripper.

"You really made a good impression on the D.s," he said (or words to that effect). "Bet you could be a food critic, if you set your mind to it."

"Like the Undercover Connoisseur," I said, thinking of a column from one of the Chicago papers.

"I've met her," Tripper told me. "She's a pretty sharp lady. But I hope I can keep you from following your muse to the big city papers. Most Mystery Shoppers are so timid when it comes to restaurant work; I need your critical eye."

"You've got it," I reassured him. "Now," I asked, "would you like to come inside for some coffee and cheesecake?"

But Tripper had to beg off - though I swear I could see him seriously considering my invitation. I went inside, fixed myself a two-cup pot of decaf and polished off the cheesecake by myself. The end of a perfect Saturday.