A Christmas Quandary

You are at a Christmas dinner party and the meal will be served in a half-hour or so. The guests are friendly people whom you see once or twice a year; you know their names and marital status, but little else. The conversation is safe—the weather, because yes, it has been unseasonably warm for this time of year. The couple that just returned from Bangkok adds that it was very warm there too.

Conversation falters when the hostess enters the room bearing a large plate of giant shrimp, monstrous crustaceans, really, almost a meal onto themselves. The guest on your right takes one, dips it into the cocktail sauce, and pops the entire animal into his mouth. He chews contemplatively and his wife takes a shrimp too. You reach for one yourself. These are shelled shrimp save for their tails, and ever since you were a child, you have been perfecting the art of taking a shrimp, holding it daintily between thumb and forefinger, and extracting every gram of flesh from the tail.

Having consumed one, the immediate question is how long must you wait before taking another? There are eight of you, and you have surreptitiously counted the shrimp. There were 14, now only 11 remain.

But suddenly, the guest on your left takes two shrimps and in the blink of an eye, pops them both in his mouth sans cocktail sauce, and swallows them whole almost without chewing. You know this because his Adam’s apple bobbed only once. You and the neighbor on your right exchange covert glances. There is a shrimp hog amongst you, and the crustacean cocktail rule that reigned a moment ago has been superseded.

You wait. There’s a strong possibility that one or more guests are allergic to shrimp. That, indeed, is the case. The impossibly thin husband and wife sharing an easy chair look at the platter’s offerings, shake their heads and smile ruefully. One shrimp in a moment of weakness would send them both to the hospital.

You decide it’s now or never and in a moment of selflessness take the smallest remaining shrimp. The hostess and her husband take one each and you wonder if perhaps they’ve already had a shrimp or two before serving the guests. Do the party hosts get special dispensation and if so, is it fair?

Your neighbor to the right rolls his eyes and leans forward to spear another offering. He glances at you and notes your disapproving look, sighs and demonstrates his good manners by disallowing himself the treat which, good manners be damned, really should be his. Both couples who have yet to partake do so.

Only two giant shrimp are left and just as you figure you too will become a shrimp hog because really, you hardly know these people, the hostess takes a shrimp and returns the almost empty platter to the kitchen. You rise from the sofa to help clear the napkins and shrimp tails, deciding you will have the last one as soon as the hostess turns her back. At that very moment, she picks up the sole surviving marine treat and gives it to the family dog, who wolfs it down without chewing. Your breath catches in your throat. The dog gives you a knowing look.

You spend the better part of the meal doing the math dealing with the dog, the guests and the shrimp. At the end of the superb repast, a sliver of the excellent desert remains. You and the shrimp hog exchange glances.