The Important Matter of Fine Dining

Last night after my extreme bogging in the markets, I ventured off to dinner for my wife’s birthday. I had talked about the place we were going to dine for weeks, perhaps even months. I showed everyone pictures and told them of the highfalutin status of this esteemed establishment. Expectations were sky high.

When we entered this esteemed establishment, we were greeted coldly by 3 women awkwardly positioned behind a desk — as if they were security guards. In the adjacent room was a Christmas party, the raucous type in what must’ve been an ALL BLACK company. We were seated in the main dining room, which was entirely empty bedecked in 1980s decor. We sat down and were left to rot at the table for a good 10 minutes and then a haggard waiter came over to us and asked if we “wanted anything to drink.” My impression of this middle aged black man was negative. We later found out it was his first day on the job and I suspected it was his first day inside of a restaurant.

After I informed him we hadn’t received our menus — he brought over a cocktail menu and gave it to me alone, the patriarch of the table. I should’ve walked out at that point — but it was 8pm and my wife’s birthday, so options were limited. Plus anyway, we had all dressed up for the fancy dining experience.

After he took the drink orders he turned to me about 15 paces from the table and told me “let me know when you want to see a food menu.” My wife and I locked eyes, bewildered by what he just said. I shouted out “you can bring them now.”

I peered over to the bar and saw his manager teaching him how to wait a table, basic stuff. Soon after he came back with drinks. My daughter was quite parched and took a large gulp of her lemonade, which, incidentally, was seasoned with SALT instead of sugar. I called the waiter over and asked him to take it away and then followed him with my eyes back to the bar, where his manager then took out the pitcher of lemonade and tasted it and then spit it out.

My youngest and most rebellious son, ANTIFA FLY, came back from the bathroom and said “some stupid waiter was in there blasting his YouTube video while taking leak and he didn’t wash his hands.”

I said “was it our waiter?”

He shot back coldly “no.”

Dinner was served by what must’ve been every employee at this shit hole — a very promising sign of professionalism in what was, thus far, a ridiculous experience.

My eldest son ordered fish and one of the waiters offered to “clean it” for him table side. I think he meant “debone” but was too stupid to use that word. He then proceeded to mangle the fish in his plate until it was completely mush — leaving at least half the bones in it for what seemed like an eternal struggle session. My wife was holding in her laughter.

As my son took his fist bite of the mangled fish, ANTIFA FLY yelled out to my eldest “hey remember that waiter I told you about in the bathroom? He just mashed up your fish.”

ANTIFA FLY took one bite of his filet mignon and said it tasted “like fish” and refused another. My food, on a scale of 1-10 was a zero. When the bill came I figured I’d exact some sort of petty revenge via the tip — but a 22% gratuity was added to it and I didn’t want to make a scene with everyone there, especially on my wife’s birthday, so I swallowed my manhood and paid it with a mean smile.

Oh, and when I got home, I was entreated to two dogs with food poisoning, which kept me up all night with walks at 2am, 3:3am, 5am, 7am, 9am 11:30am and 30 minutes ago.

As you well know, I was the chef in the kitchen for the dogs yesterday.

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