Waiter, there's a fag in my fagioli!

Gay men are often characterized as being natty, fastidious, particular. What it really means is that we are annoying. Case in point: dinner Saturday night at Lucas Park Grille, an upscale restaurant in downtown St. Louis. Housed in a century-old converted warehouse in the formerly derelict loft district, the restaurant reminds me of Gotham Bar and Grill or Eleven Madison Park in Manhattan. Fifteen-foot wood ceilings, polished concrete floors, and Tuscan yellow walls frame the huge, airy space, lending it a grandeur that is echoed by the ambitious menu. The fare is largely Italian "inspired" with contemporary flourishes--cauliflower is a very popular ingredient these days.

For quite some time we pored over the rather large menu. It was set in Copperplate, printed on off-white linen paper, and mounted in an embossed leather book jacket. The items on the menu sounded tantalizing--calamari in roasted garlic butter with pepperoncini, dry rubbed ribeye with mashed sweet potato, peppercorn-seared yellowfin tuna steak on beer-battered asparagus with spicy guava BBQ sauce, skate with arugula and prociutto.

"There's an 's' missing from prosciutto," R., an attorney, said, pointing to the menu. The others nodded.

"I noticed that," said S., who's a CPA. "They didn't even come close on chipolini," which in Italian is cipolline. He looked at me. "I only know because I'm Italian."

Being the only one at the table who edits for a living and majored in language, I always notice typos on menus like red wine spots on a white rug, but sometimes I feel like a show-off for pointing them out to others. So I was secretly gratified not only that I didn't take the lead this time, but that everyone else was bothered by the typos too. Granted, the misspellings were foreign words, but if an Italian restaurant charging $20 to $25 for an entree doesn't want its menu to be dissected and ridiculed by persnickety homosexuals, it should pay more attention to the details. After all, they got zucchini and saltimbocca right, and they're not easy words to spell.

"Look at this," I said. "Hercots verts. That's not even Italian."

"And andoulli!" said M, a programmer.

"I'm still trying to get over Apalacha myself," D., a quality officer, said, referring to some cheese ingredient.

Our disdain had already been instigated when we walked into the restaurant at 6:15, with a reservation S. had made days ago, and the maitre d' told us that it was in the book as having been canceled. The place was completely empty, and we were quietly escorted through three rooms to the last one and seated at the very last table. As friendly and hospitable as St. Louis appears, according to the four people I was with who live there, our placement did not seem accidental. It's easy to forget, in such an urbane setting, that you're at the Gateway to the Midwest. Five stylishly dressed, attractive men in St. Louis can only mean one thing. At a restaurant in New York our presence would be a big yawn, but in the Midwest, even in St. Louis, it still causes tongues to wag.

The waiter overheard us poking fun at the misspellings. Someone at our table murmured, sort of generally, that the menu needed a good proofreading. The waiter laughed and said, "My 6-year-old son proofread the menu." He appeared to be playing along as we pointed out errant periods, absent dashes, and bad line breaks, but at some point we realized the power dynamic had shifted when the waiter left to get our drinks.

"Oh shit," M. said, "they're gonna spit in our food."

"Yeah," R. said, "or worse."

I don't know if paranoia was at play here, but whether by accident or design, we all avoided the menu items with typos. At the end of the night, we all agreed the food was good, not great, and certainly too pricey. The service was spotty, the background noise a bit loud, and the patrons wore too much aqua. To its credit, the restaurant is a magnificent space. It's been open only for a month or two, so it's still trying to iron out the kinks. Guess they just haven't gotten around to the typos.

As we walked out to the car, across the street we all saw the warning sign on an abandoned building--No Loitring--and heeded its advice as we turned and walked wordlessly into the unblemished night.