On Saturday I ordered haddock to go from a particularly delicious Italian restaurant. Realizing fish may not be their specialty, I included a side of tartar sauce in my order (one of my favorite condiments, next to pickles and mustard. the filet o'fish gave tartar sauce its special place in my heart). Yet, to my amazement, it was not in the bag.
As I picked at the fish, pulling the slimy black stuff I'm only assuming was skin off the bottom, and eating the potatoes that came with it, Corey noticed I was less than pleased. Always one to make sure I'm happy, he left his freshly cooked pizza and side of cooling meatballs to find the toppings that righfully belonged on my haddock.
Fifteen minutes later he storms through the door, tartar sauce in hand and a story on his lips. While I warmed up my fish and he ate cold pizza he told of his gallant search throughout the city. He told us of the Stewarts that doesn't carry my condiment, and of the Price Chopper miles away where he ran up and down aisles carrying thousands of other products on its shelves, searching for that one perfect bottle of mayo-relish deliciousness.
That man, whom I lovingly refer to as Msssr. Corey, (it's actually mr. corey, but with a french accent...long story) left his fresh, hot pizza, his favorite meal only available to him a handful of times each year to buy me a bottle of tartar sauce.
The End
That's the stuff eharmony commercials are made of, folks.
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