My wife and I run a small restaurant where we often name our specials after our employees, dishes like “Sally's Chicken” after our maitre d who gave us the recipe, and “Rod’s Ribs” after a waiter who had his personal style of barbecue.
One evening after rereading the menu, I broke with this tradition and changed the description of the special we had named after our chef.
Despite her skills and excellent reputation, somehow I didn’t think an entrée named “Salmon Ella” would go over big with our customers.
When the new activities director for the rec center walked in, all us retirees quickly took notice. She was 20-something and gorgeous. My buddy whispered, “She makes me wish I was 30 years older.”
“Don’t you mean 30 years younger?” I asked.
“No. If I were 30 years younger, I’d still never have a chance with a woman like that. If I were 30 years older, it wouldn’t bother me so much.”