Bonkers over Bananas

Carlos and I were somewhere in the San Francisco Bay area when on our way to dinner we noticed an ice cream shop next to the restaurant. One of us commented that we should definitely save room for dessert. However, after a meal of generous portions, I was willing to skip the stop at the ice cream shop. That was until Carlos gave me a woeful look that said, “But you promised.”

“Okay,” I agreed, “I guess I have room for a scoop of vanilla.”

The place was full of customers—a sure sign of good eating according to Carlos. All the booths were occupied so we took a table for two near the center of the room.

The server soon arrived with plastic coated menus the size of serving trays bearing colorful spreads of syrup laden frozen delights aimed to weaken the most devout health food addict. While I planned to firmly resist temptation, Carlos said he needed to study the menu. From my side of the table, I watched him peruse pictures of sundaes, milkshakes and triple scoop ice cream cones.

When the server returned to our table, I stuck with my good intentions. “One scoop of vanilla,” I said.

She noted my order and then turned to Carlos, who had positioned his menu just below eye level, obstructing his nose and mouth. Lifting his come-over-here index finger he motioned for her to stand next to him, which she did.

By now his menu blocked his entire face from my view as he proceeded to give the server rather unusual instructions.

“Don’t say anything,” he said. “Just watch my finger. I’m going to point. Don’t say a word.”

Immediately suspicious, even before his fingertips tapped that laminated sheet of tempting delights, I knew what he was ordering.

“You’re getting a banana split!” I said in a voice loud enough to draw the attention of nearby customers.

“Sh-sh-sh,” he whispered from behind the menu.

“You’re getting a banana split!” I repeated.

By now our audience had grown and it seemed to me that suddenly every person in the ice cream shop was watching and waiting to see where this one-sided conversation was headed with the gentleman hiding behind his menu. Carlos, of course, was thoroughly enjoying his position on center stage, looking around at other customers as if seeking applause for a very clever performance. He finally surrendered the menu to the server and looked at me with a silly smile.

“How can you possibly eat a banana split after that big dinner?” I asked.

My question went unanswered.

A few minutes later: Enter one ice cream shop server with two dishes on a tray carefully balanced in her right hand raised above her shoulder.

I gasped.

“I knew it! You got a banana split!”

With other customers’ eyes fixed on our table, the server set before Carlos a magnificent display of decadence that looked even bigger and more delicious than the picture on the menu suggested. Three large balls of pink strawberry, creamy vanilla and smooth chocolate ice cream lay cradled in a hammock of split banana. Rivers of yellow, red and brown syrup oozed from under a three-inch high cloud of whipped cream, and topping it off, three bright red cherries with stems. It was indeed a work of art.

Few times have I seen Carlos at a loss for words, but that banana split certainly gave him pause. He looked at my humble scoop of vanilla and then again at his multi-colored banana-based creation.

“You’ll have to help me with this,” he said. “It’s way too much for one person.”

***

On September 24, 2020, we would have celebrated our silver wedding anniversary, a milestone we didn’t quite reach. On that day I plan to enjoy a banana split in my husband’s honor. Please feel free to do the same.