Last week, I ate dinner at a fancy restaurant.
Now listen, here is the part where I leave out the name of the actual fancy-to-me restaurant, lest there be some nay-sayer out in cyberland who feels the need to say something as non-helpful to the universe as, “Actually, I wouldn’t consider (insert name of non-mentioned restaurant here) to be a fancy restaurant.”
For the love of baby Moses floating in the Sweetgrass basket, there were no paper napkins, no plastic ware, no one carried a tray except the wait staff, & I saw not one solitary child the entire time I was there.
That, all summed up, equals fancy to me.
After searching the actual parking lot fruitlessly for a spot, I found a gravel side lot about two continents away, left my car there covered in anointing oil & prayer that it would be there when I got back, & marched my way across the gravel/asphalt/concrete parking area in my wedges (because what is a possibly-fancy dinner without wedges???).
I stopped partially through my journey to take a picture of the building (because, after all, if I eat a meal at a yet-to-be-determined-fancy restaurant & don’t post a picture, did the meal actually even happen???? Ummmm, no Mark Zuckerburg, it did not) and I made my way to the front doors.
Upon entering the doors, I found myself face-to-face (literally because it was stainless steel) with an elevator.
Score: Fancy 1, Not Fancy 0
There was a sign next to the elevator that said something about the rooftop being closed due to a private party. Clearly, I was not headed up there.
Y’all, as Jesus of Nazareth is my witness, I stood there a full four minutes staring at the doors of that elevator. I didn’t push the button. I didn’t look left or right. I literally just stood there, paralyzed, staring at the doors to the elevator as if I was considering jumping off a high-rise building or something. One would think I had never ridden an elevator before in my entire 40-something years of life.
At some point in my nearly catatonic state, the doors of the elevator opened for me to be confronted with some restaurant patrons & a young girl dressed all in black holding menus. I used my deductive reasoning & concluded she was an employee, so I asked her which way I needed to go to the main dining floor (nevermind the fact that none of them exited the elevator, which left me wondering where in the world they just came from).
After a cute little snicker, she assured me the main dining floor was up, and we began our ascent, at which time she said, “We are headed to the fourth floor.”
Now y’all, it made total sense to me that by “we” she meant she & her patron friends, so I just figured we were riding to the top first before finding the floor I was supposed to exit on (and by this time, I am pretty sure my friends are well past appetizers, so what’s a little joyride at this point anyway????) so I just stood there as the doors to the elevator opened on the fourth floor as promised.
And no one moved.
Not the patrons.
Not the cute young employee in black holding menus.
& not me either.
I just stood there waiting for the doors to close so I could go back down to the floor I was supposed to get off on.
Finally, after a long, awkward pause, I said, “Oh, is this the main dining room floor?” and the cute, young waitress said, “Well, yes,” as if I was supposed to be a clairvoyant or something.
A little direction goes a long way, Flo.
The rest of the evening was amazing & uneventful, in a good way.
The food was all unpronounceable to me & fancier than our finest meals at a family gathering. The Sangria was fruity & fresh, the conversation was light & the food was rich & hearty.
I decided I like fancy restaurants. I guess I’m gonna need the hubby to get another part-time job.
Or, maybe I could just get a job riding up and down that elevator directing people to the correct floor. I feel certain I could be a little more helpful.
And so there is that…