Bill Kurtis

I can't eat in public anymore. I never thought this would be a problem that I would grow up to have, but alas I'm developing a tendency to create hubbubs in eateries.

Once or twice a week I leave work to eat lunch. I always eat alone. It makes me feel chic, like I'm too cool for school...or maybe just too cool for friends. The act of going out to eat is pretty much where my man-about-town fairy tale ends as the places I go are far from high society hang-outs. Most of the restaurants I'm talking about are named after Al or Bernie and the word "beef" or "grill" can be found somewhere in the restaurant's name.

I was in my favorite ethnic delicatessen (read: Chinese food joint) eating my weekly helping of chicken fried rice. I was in Yu Choy (pictured above) for 10 minutes when an older gentleman with a familiar face and an even more familiar voice sat at the table in front of me and ordered chicken dumplings.

I quickly identified him as popular Chicago journalist-cum-AT&T-wireless-Internet-spokesman Bill Kurtis. Whenever I'm in the presence of someone with a modicum of notoriety (it doesn't happen often), I ask myself "how famous is this person in front of me, really?" That is to say, is this person famous enough that distant family members are going to call to say they saw me mixed in with all the media and paparazzi on CNN? Is this person famous enough to be one of the B-listers on "Dancing With the Stars?" or is this person famous like the mildly crazy guy in town whom everyone knows to avoid?

As far as I know (and could tell from watching him eat his dumplings) Bil Kurtis seems more likely to end up dancing with Cheryl Burke than on CNN or the dumpster in my alleyway.

Bill Kurtis (pictured: right) is famous, but with a small "f."

He's famous enough that the Hispanic owner of the Chinese restaurant (?) also recognized him. After gathering around three of his employees to validate his suspicion that the old guy at table four was, in some way, famous, the owner made his approach... with a steaming bowl of shrimp chop suey in hand.* I could tell it was shrimp chop suey, because before he shimmied on over to Mr. Kurtis' table, he brought me my check. His focus was on Bill Kurtis now. He was done with me and the check was his way of signifying it.

Because the book I brought with me was just so-so, by now it only served as a beard disguising my spying on the unfolding theater in front of me. I wondered if the restaurant owner would still hand Bill Kurtis the fresh bowl of suey if Bill Kurtis turned out to be some regular dude with a smooth voice. There weren't any customers in the place without food, how would the owner have covered that up? It was Bill Kurtis, so I'll never know.

*Mmm. Shrimp chop suey. Sparing no expense, I see.

A healthy dose of gushing took a one way trip from the owner to Bill Kurtis. It was muted enough that I couldn't hear exactly what was said. Again, with certain celebrities, you can probably guess what someone would say in that situation.

"Oh Madonna, you look so good for your age... well, I don't mean your age, like you're old, I meant your age as in, 'my God you're 50 and you look 16...' But...but I'm not implying you had plastic surgery. You're 50. Be proud of that...not that you're not... I'm just saying you look healthier than people your age usually look. You look great... you totally look good enough to pull off messing around with A-Rod... not that you were, just that you could..."

But the restaurant owner probably wasn't bringing up A-Rod in his conversation with Bill Kurtis. They exchanged a few more pleasantries and then it got to the point where it would have been awkward for the owner to stand hovering above this poor old (68) guy with two plates of food, one of which he had not ordered. So the owner returned to my table, picked up the money I left with the check and made change. He returned quickly, always with one eye on the famous television anchor, shoveled my change and my check (again) at me and returned to the table in front of me to attend to the whims of Mr. Kurtis (who didn't really seem to have any whims) and to provide an epilogue to the star struck show the owner had been putting on in front of me these last few minutes.

The owner felt comfortable enough to bring a few of the restaurant's cooks over to visit with Bill Kurtis. They weren't asking for autographs or taking pictures. They weren't really chatting with him, either. They were more like watching him chew. Like a scorned wife waiting for her husband to drop dead after eating the soup she poisoned. Everyone huddled around Kurtis waiting for...I dunno, something.

My bill was $7. I left a $2 tip, the high-roller that I am, and finished the two pages left I had in my book's chapter. I gathered my jacket, book and phone and headed for the exit. In the rigmarole surrounding Kurtis, it didn't seem as if anyone was paying attention to me until I heard an angry voice behind me loudly saying "Hey, man!"

Being a man, it seemed reasonable that the statement was directed toward me.

I turned around and the tiny owner was right behind me like we were attached to each other by four feet of rope. He had my check and my $2 in his fist.

"You gotta pay your bill, man," the owner said.

This was confusing because I had paid the bill. I wouldn't know how to go about paying for something twice. I glanced over the owner's head at Bill Kurtis who was (seemingly) not paying attention to the confrontation.** I felt this all somehow had something to with Kurtis and kinda hoped he would, at least, rubberneck in his seat.

** Bill Kurtis is a wily journalist. I now realize he heard every word we said. Well played, old man.

I explained to the owner that the cash he had in his hand was the tip, made from change he had given me just a few minutes ago in a gushing haze of Kurtis excitement. Okay, I didn't say anything about Bill Kurtis, but I was hoping the owner would infer why this mistake was happening. Star gazing Bill Kurtis made this guy think I was dine-and-dashing.

What am I? Miss Louisiana Teen USA?

I am not Miss Louisiana Teen USA.

I'm surprised more people aren't as afraid of this situation as I am. Everyday instances of my-word-against-yours could happen and sometimes do. This was not going to court and I had to decide whether I was willing to walk - perhaps force my way - out of the restaurant (and never come back) or avoid confrontation and pay my bill a second time. I stalled the decision altogether and tried to explain the exact same situation a second time. I again told the owner that "for some reason" he handed me the check along with my change, but that I had paid the bill.

For the owner, it was simple, if the check is one the table it must mean that the customer didn't pay. There's a process, a system, he does this dozens of times a day. Why would that system fail now?

Bill Kurtis, that's why. Damn you, Bill Kurtis.

During my second attempt at explaining the situation, one of the cooks previously gawking at the CBS journalist earlier joined our little pow-wow with a $20 bill in his hand (presumably my $20 bill). He held it in front of the owner as if it were verifiable proof that I had paid. I couldn't imagine that either of them had memorized the serial number of the bill, and the sad thought crossed my mind that my bill was the only twenty in the drawer. Inexplicably I nodded and agreed that the bill in the cook's hand was my bill. "Yup, that's it. Can't you tell? Looks just like the bill I handed you. Andrew Jackson, right? Yeah, totally. That's mine."

The owner was instantly appeased. He apologized and handed me a free fortune cookie, apologizing profusely. I was relieved, nnot mad although I was struck with the irony that Bill Kurtis was more likely to steal from them than I was, as the journalist has a recent history of theft (see video below). And if Yu Choy was willing to give Bill Kurtis some free shrimp suey just for showing up, shouldn't I have had the same for being wrongly accused?