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Let me say this about that.

There are two kinds of people in this world — people who like to eat out at fancy restaurants and people who don’t.  Count me among the “don’t” population.  Eating out is for those who enjoy overpriced food, described in pretentious terms, and served at a glacial pace by surly men with ponytails.  It’s about as much fun as a four-fingered prostate exam.

These places tend to have snooty names like Chez Michelle,  Fleur del Mar, or Maison la Petit Toot.  Some of these restaurants are even owned by (what is termed as) a “celebrity chef”.  If you decide to dine at one of these places, you might want to think about getting a second mortgage before you go.

Their waiters all have a case of  “attitude” that would make the President of Iran look like Mr. Rogers.  You can count on the fact that at some point in the evening, your waiter will inform you that…    he is really an actor and is doing this gig only while he waits for his next movie audition.  They love to use high-browed intellectual intimidation of their customers to disquise the fact that they flunked out of the local junior college for sleeping through their 11:00am shoe-lace tying class.  

Some people seem to like this pompous crap.  But  if you were able to translate the waiter’s haughty presentation into plain English, it might sound something like this:

Waiter:  “Welcome.  My name is Bryce and I’ll be your server.  The Chef has prepared his signature dish  for you this evening.  For the main course, he has prepared a blackened woodpecker served in a corndog sauce reduction and garnished with pine cone shavings.”

Patron:  “Mmmmm, sounds yummy!”

Waiter:  “The main course also comes with a hot appetizer of curried mule lips served over a bed of blackberry briars.”

Patron:  “Oooooh, Bryce.  My head is spinning.  What wine would you recommend with the woodpecker?”

Waiter:  “I find that a ’92 Maison la Derriere brings out the musty quality of any tree-eating fowl.”

After a three hours of enduring this torture, the waiter returns to inquire about your desert order:

Waiter:  “For desert this evening, the chef is featuring his caramelized kitty litter, drizzled over hearts of crab grass, and accompanied by a jigger of musk ox sweat.”

Patron:  “The perfect end to any meal.”

After desert, the check arrives in a leather book that would be suitable binding for the Dead Sea Scrolls.  And when you see the total, you understand why the check is so garishly packaged.  It can be a little disconcerting to get a check with a number approximating the gross national product of Ethiopia, but think of the frequent flyer miles you’re racking up.

It never ceases to amaze me how some people rant-on about what great places these fancy restaurants are.  These aristocrat wannabe’s seem to endure this intellectual water-boarding to keep from proving that they have the IQ of peat moss.

And, that’s all I have to say about that.

Shambo