Navel gazing

Maybe it was the undulations of the comely belly dancer nearby, or the dullness of satiations, particularly when you've been satiated by dishes you can't even pronounce, or, more likely, the sort of Diamond Jim Brady machismo that afflicts men dining out with wives and friends.
Sue and I had a dinner date with another couple Saturday night.
On our way to John and Kathy's house, Sue told me, "We're going to a Turkish restaurant.''
I'd been looking forward to a steak dinner, but hey, you know, I'm an adventurous kind of eater so that was find with me, with one proviso.
"I' m not eating mutton,'' I said.
"I'm sure you won't have to,'' Sue replied.
The food was good, the company better. And the belly dancer was a true artist, although it is a little discomfiting to see people stick dollar bills in the waistband of a dancer who works without a pole.
Anyway, the check comes. I look at the total and prepare to pay half plus 20 percent. Sue, with the merest of glances, noticed that we were charged twice for a couple of dishes, and saved the four of us 50 smackers.
"Good call, dear,'' I said. "Guys don't want to look like green-eyeshade types when they're out.''
"You would think that they wouldn't want to look like they can't add even more,'' she said. "But that's just me."