The little woman and I commemorated our wedding anniversary with a leisurely dinner at a Melting Pot (an apt name, I think, in relation to a marriage) restaurant. I like to "put on" store clerks and restaurant waitresses (it gives me a fleeting but needed feeling of superiority, I guess).
So at the Melting Pot, I badgered the maitre d' about the real name of her restaurant. "Are you sure it isn't 'Melting Spot'?" I asked her several times. Lo and behold if she didn't finally glance at the large, official sign on the wall behind her, the sign with the logos of the restaurant which she had read hundreds of times, to make sure that she was or wasn't working for "Melting Spot."
Then with our waitress I persisted several times, "Are you sure this restaurant isn't named 'Smelting Pot'?" She too eventually double-checked her menu and her shirt tag to make sure she was or wasn't working for "Smelting Pot."
However, unlike that English-speaking Mexican-woman sportswriter who was recently "embarrassed" by what she saw when she entered the (men's) players' locker room after their N.F.L. game, and who had to appear scantily clad on several tv talk shows to complaint about it, the restaurant supervisor and the waitress weren't bleached blonds.
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