A night at the opera.... The second plate went back. The waiter and I exchanged glances. A furtive eye-brow slid up in a quick quiver. It was the type you might imagine on a frog if it had an eyebrow just before its tongue took off for a fly or, alternatively, just before it jumped from a lily pad to avoid a big bass rising from the depths threatening to eat it. This case was the latter. Our waiter, I am sure, felt lucky to have his eyebrows intact after the beating he had taken from my frie...