Tuesday, October 14, 2003
"The Things Meet" (OR) "Jess and Willy Learn About Life in the Big City"
Only our clothes belong in Sanford. This we both know, standing in the lobby after awkardly figuring out that yes, that guy was a valet, and he would park our car for us. We can't sit and wait yet, as another couple is taking up most of the room on the small, vinyl couch that blends in with the wall. The hostess greets us, Jess sits, and I stand out of place, slumping on and off feet that don't stay still.
The couple is seated. I sit. We wait, Jessica hoping that everyone eating will do the right thing at least some of the time. It's like a first date without the nerves, us here, spending money we don't have, wearing clothes like cloaks and speaking, consciously, as intelligently as everyone else.
They seat us. There's red wine that sticks to the back of the throat. The menu is like a car wash combination choice. The woman sitting next to us has long abandoned tact:
"Don't look at me like that!" "You're being COY. You know. COY. The WORD. You know what it means." "You can't GET seafood that's fresh in Milwaukee. You've GOT to go to Tokyo. In Tokyo you can eat in the afternoon what they catch in the morning. THAT'S fresh." "You're being evasive. You heard me. You're being coy and evasive." "Oh, I've had this before."
We smile and try to talk through this . . . but sometimes it's more fun listening.
Salad with cornmeal, salmon in a circle, and elk arranged like art. We listen to the regulars talk about how it was superb as always; Jim gives advice on the rice that's not rice, not pilaf, but ___; and Jessica is full before the main course.
Eventually the place thins out; we stand up tentatively in our fancy clothes; Jess reminds me to tip the waitress well; we leave the woman and her coy, evasive, unfortunate husband to themselves; and we walk out into the cool night of the city.
The couple is seated. I sit. We wait, Jessica hoping that everyone eating will do the right thing at least some of the time. It's like a first date without the nerves, us here, spending money we don't have, wearing clothes like cloaks and speaking, consciously, as intelligently as everyone else.
They seat us. There's red wine that sticks to the back of the throat. The menu is like a car wash combination choice. The woman sitting next to us has long abandoned tact:
"Don't look at me like that!" "You're being COY. You know. COY. The WORD. You know what it means." "You can't GET seafood that's fresh in Milwaukee. You've GOT to go to Tokyo. In Tokyo you can eat in the afternoon what they catch in the morning. THAT'S fresh." "You're being evasive. You heard me. You're being coy and evasive." "Oh, I've had this before."
We smile and try to talk through this . . . but sometimes it's more fun listening.
Salad with cornmeal, salmon in a circle, and elk arranged like art. We listen to the regulars talk about how it was superb as always; Jim gives advice on the rice that's not rice, not pilaf, but ___; and Jessica is full before the main course.
Eventually the place thins out; we stand up tentatively in our fancy clothes; Jess reminds me to tip the waitress well; we leave the woman and her coy, evasive, unfortunate husband to themselves; and we walk out into the cool night of the city.
