Eating out with my husband is painful. He’s annoyed me for years

It’s 6.35pm. We are in a restaurant. We have had our menus for nine minutes. Well, theoretically. Like any forward-thinking person, aware of how truly swiftly a life passes by, I have already looked at the menu online and had decided what I would order by 9am this morning. This practice is a simple courtesy towards the Hangry Identified (me) that I have long encouraged those I care about (Pete), those I regularly dine with (Pete) and those who have a borderline aggressive inability to decide what they want from a menu (Pete) to adopt. For their own safety.

We are about to see if, once more, this is a suggestion he has declined to accept. If, once more, Ordering A Meal is about to turn into a drawn-out ordeal.

Me, already quite twitchy from low blood sugar levels but still retaining a bright, wifely cheerfulness: “So, my love, do you know what you want?”

Pete: “Are you aware of how utterly terrifying you look when you say that?”

Me, still brightly: “Order some food? Now?”

Pete, clearly panicked, looks down at the menu and then up at me.

Pete: “Oh gosh, everything looks good. What are you having?”

Me, with the crispness of an army sergeant: “Soup, then venison.”

Pete: “That does sound nice. Should I have that? Do I want venison?”

Me: “This is a question you could have started asking yourself yesterday if you’d looked at the menu online.”

Pete: “Online? Oh, is that what your email titled ‘Choose or perish’ was about? I didn’t open it. I just thought you were quoting Ghostbusters again.”

The waitress approaches. I stiffen. I know what is going to happen next. It’s been happening for 30 years.

Waitress: “What can I get you guys?”

Pete: “Uhm, ah, it all looks so good.”

A terrible pregnant pause.

Pete: “What would you recommend?”

Were I less in charge of my faculties at this point, I would gallop out of the restaurant like those cavalry horses and run amok in London for two hours. Instead, I put my napkin over my head to reduce outside stimuli and calm myself.

Waitress: “People love the hake.”

Another terrible pause.

Pete: “You know what? I’ll have the burger.”

The waitress leaves.

Me, from under the napkin: “You always have the burger. I don’t know why we step through this ghastly charade. Why don’t you just order the burger?”

Pete: “I think it’s nice to chat.”

Me, taking off the napkin. “She’s really busy. This isn’t… Aspel & Company. She just wants to take your order and f*** off. No waitress wants to be engaged in a massive, faffy convo.”

Helena: “I disagree. When I was a waitress, I loved it.”

Oh yeah. We’re with two other people. They have remained tactfully silent while Pete and I play out our tale as old as time.

Helena: “It’s nice to help people find what they want.”

Pete, triumphantly, to me: “See?”

Fidor: “Well, when I was a waiter, I hated it. I didn’t want to be responsible for someone else’s dinner.”

It is my turn to be triumphant. However, we appear to be at a stalemate. Which of us is right?

Fidor, nervously: “If I might make an observation?”

Pete, hastily: “Don’t make ‘an observation’ until Caitlin’s eaten some bread. When hungry, ‘hot takes’ make her lash out.”

Everyone waits until the bread — essentially my meds — kicks in.

Fidor, tentatively: “I think this is a… cultural issue? Pete is Mediterranean. Metabolically, he’s set up to graze lightly all day then feast around 10pm on multiple meze. He would never have had to make a choice because everything would be on the table.”

Pete looks stunned. “That’s right! My childhood left me wholly unprepared for choosing one thing and one thing only.”

Fidor: “Whereas Caitlin is British working class, where you skip lunch in favour of coffee and a fag and then ‘work up an appetite’ for your tea at 5pm.”

Me: “My hunger makes me focused and driven.”

Pete: “While my snacking disincentivises urgency.”

This is a truly revelatory moment. For the first time in 30 years, Pete and I understand our fundamental restaurant incompatibility. This could be the start of an… entrée cordiale.

Then the waitress comes back.

“I’m so sorry, the burger’s off. Is there anything else you would like?”

I put the napkin on my head and start quietly neighing.