We're out to a fun new restaurant on a super last minute date. The spontaneity of it all is romantic, but the thing is, I just stuffed a massive burrito in my face about an hour ago and planned to sit at home for the rest of the night recovering from my food coma by catching up on a few episodes of "Weeds," so I'm not hungry. Instead of saying no to the date, I happily agreed to meet up for some grub.
After a few bites, I forfeited. "I'll just take the rest home," I said.
His face scrunched up with disdain. "Oh, I don't DO leftovers. Here, let me help you eat it."
"No, it's cool! The waitress won't mind!" I said as I called her over to the table.
"I really don't like the idea of taking leftovers home," he explained. "It's prepared the way the chef wants it. If you reheat it it won't be the same. It's...it's gross."
It's friggin pasta, not fish or something that wouldn't keep, so I shrugged it off and grabbed my neatly wrapped to-go bag. I'm the one who has to eat it later, not him. But the rest of the night he kept staring at my bag sighing. He grunted with disapproval when I placed it on my lap during the car ride home. "I really wish you hadn't brought that to go," he complained.
What gives? Next time I'm going to over-order the shit outta the menu and get multiple to-go bags and parade down the street like Cher on a shopping spree just so I can smirk to myself when I reheat it for lunch for the next few days. Sheesh.