Husband’s friend K. has always been, comme on dit, a very special restaurant customer. Yes, he has questions about the dish; he’d like to substitute risotto for pilaf; he wants the eggs cooked extremely well, but the toast should be more buff than beige; hey, how ’bout we go off-menu here? The last time we dined with K. when the server asked, “How would you like that done?” Husband quipped, “In the most complicated manner possible.” He was not incorrect.

My friend C. is also a difficult diner, but where K. is Baroque, C. is ascetic. She wants it plain, with everything on the side. She can’t eat mushrooms or shellfish and won’t eat much else except salmon, beef, or ice cream. She’s lived and traveled around the world so it’s not like she’s ignorant of more varied cuisines; she’s just not interested.

K. and C. are both single, and I’ve often wondered what would happen if they found themselves on a blind date. Can you just imagine the flurry of special requests being relayed to the kitchen, hastening the harried water to an early, medicated retirement? I can see it now: “When Sally Met Sally.”

Last night, K. stopped by on a business trip, and as we walked downtown to grab dinner we ran into C. I realized immediately that this was a rare opportunity to observe two master practitioners of the fussy arts in their native habitat, so I invited her along. I’m disappointed to say that the waitress’s teeth did not fall out from gnashing, nor did the chef quit on the spot, torching the kitchen as he escaped through the side door. You let me down, guys.