Super big fun at Benihana - If looks could kill I'd be in jail

So I went to Benihana with a bunch of tourists from Ireland Saturday, which sounds like the opening line of a bar joke, and in a way it is.

First, my Irish friends who have settled here in the scenic northwest Chicago suburbs pronounce the name of the place with the accent on the third syllable with that nasal sound somewhere between a hard A and a Bug’s Bunny “ehh” as is “Ehh, What’s Up Doc?”

See, Illinois is the upper respiratory tract infection capitol of the United States, so if you lived here for more than six months that how you wind up talking.

Anyway, at Benni Hannah there’s this mook in a sport coat and gelled hair standing outside with his date drinking some red yuppie drink and he spots my buddy’s 10-year-old son and starts busting his balls.

“Hey, little fella, you must be the owner,” he says, amusing no one but his drunk ass self and kind of freaking out both the 10-year-old and me.

As we are waiting for room enough for 14 people, my friend, whom we will call Seamus, because that’s his name, starts working the room. And he’s a magnet for freaks like the guy out front with the drink that matched his hair.

So the guy makes the same joke to Seamus’ son again, making the kid laugh nervously. Hey, even a 10-year-old knows an asshole when he sees one.

So I tell the 10-year-old (who loves violent video games, like most kids), as a joke, as I know he’s not supposed to swear, that I’ll give him $20 if he does the following. If the yup starts up again, say, “Listen, what the fuck is wrong with you? If you don’t leave me alone I’m gonna break your fucking arm. Don’t think I haven’t done it before. And don’t think I won’t do it again. Understand?”

As kids love Quentin Tarantino movies (or at least Grand Theft Auto), he thought this was funny. And he knew the guy was pissing me off, too. So I had the kid’s back.

With my buddy Seamus, I’m the minder, which is what he started calling me on such adventures. And you know it’s comically scary when someone needs me to be their baby-sitter. Which if fine with me, because sometimes being a Michael Chiklis sort of cop, or a Jack Bauer kind of government agent, has its secret appeal.

Anyway, dinner went fine. We had a chef at our table whose name tag read “Jun” who was from near Mexico City, which offered further proof about how this immigration battle is about six years past being serious about itself. It’s like the battle for gun control. Sure, there are solid reasons to address both issues, but we wait until things are way past the point of expecting reasonable solutions.

Back to dinner. Jun was an affable guy who did the requisite Japanese place stuff on the grill: catching shrimp tails in his pocket; balancing eggs on his spatula (which is NOT a euphemism for masturbation, but should be); making a volcano with an onion; and, most importantly, making sure no one was so drunk that they put their hands on the grilling surface, thereby spoiling the fun for everyone.

All was well until after the check came. The mook shows back up out of nowhere at our tables to say his goodbyes and goes into some babble similar to that speech Tom Cruise gave in Magnolia, which is to say one of those self-help type rambles, sort of like he did on Oprah to prove he ain’t gay.

Again, he singles out Seamus’ youngest and asks the kid what he wants out of life, And in this motivational speaker’s world view that meant knowing what kind of car he wanted and where he wanted to live.

The kid knows his cars and said a sports car of some sort and a mansion, which pleased this More Ron Huber, who babbled like a toxic brook about going to church, knowing what you want and having lots of cool stuff.

As all I really want in a car is good gas mileage and low insurance rates, I was not impressed. Most everyone else was uncomfortable.

Then the guy decides to go around the table and shake everyone’s hands like we were all guests on the talk show playing in his brain. I got up, walked over, gave him one of those head-shakes-with shoulder-roles moves you see in the movie just before someone pops somebody as I shook his hand. A look that says, Go in peace. Now.

This guy was taller, younger and in better shape then me and way more than likely drunker. Still, when I want to look unamused, I know the pop culture codes and have that special Irish way about me that might, just might scare somebody who didn’t know any better.

Mr. Infomercial finally shut up - and I didn’t even have to say anything to accomplish this. Maybe I reminded him of his dad - or the guy at the Scientology meetings who tells him he’s trying way too hard.

And maybe I should be glad I read this doofus right and he didn’t get violent and put my bald head on the griddle, a paddy melt for Irish visitors' dessert -- and quite a mess for Jun to clean up.

Still, when you can get a loudmouth to be quiet, in this day and age you have every right to be overly impressed with yourself.