And he didn’t even speak with a french accent

On Saturday evening, we attended a fancy dinner in honor of three family birthdays this month: my mom-in-law, my brother-in-law and My Honey turning 65,45 & 40 respectively.  Those of you doing the math, yes I’m older than my husband.  Thanks very much for bringing it up.  It’s one of Sassy’s favorite subjects.  You’d think I’d have a fairly tough scab on that wound, but no.  Let’s move on, shall we?

We had dinner reservations at a very toney restaurant in town, one of My Honey and my favorites.  We were able, at the last minut,e to pawn my kids off on my brother which left him with my two kids, his own two kids, my father and 87 dogs.  Basically, I slowed down at his door, shoved the kids and their teddy bears out of the car, and sped away.  

We all got dressed up.  My Honey wore his suit and looked very James Bond.  I wore the treacherous shoes from Kelli’s birthday two years ago, without incident this year.  All five of us looked lovely.  We showed up at the restaurant about fifteen minutes before our reservation.  The Maitre d suggested we wait in the bar.  This had been our plan all along so we readily settled ourselves on the cushy  leather bar stools, ordered a lovely bottle of chilled white wine, and enjoyed the jazz/flamenco four piece band.  We were all in fine moods so we weren’t too upset when our reservation time came and went.

After it had been at least twenty minutes past our appointed time, the Maitre d came in and told us it would be a bit longer.

“So the reservation time we make is merely a suggestion of when we’d like to eat?” I asked.  He no ma’amed me and headed to the door.

He came again in ten more minutes with the same news.  He told the bar to comp us another bottle of wine.  At the forty minute mark he appeared to tell us about a potential table.  This table he was inordinately excited about was in the “Murphy Room”, clearly a name he’d just made up in order to entice us to take the inferior table. 

“So we made our reservations for 7:45 and requested a table with a view (almost all the tables in the restaurant have a view of either the city lights or the mountains) and you offer us a tiny room with a view of the drywall?” My tone was dry, my smile fake.

I’d like to mention I was on my fourth glass of wine.  My mom-in-law reiterated it was a special occasion and the maitre d strode back up front, his step a little less assured than before.

Unbelievably, we were still in a good mood and were laughing about our circumstances.  I have no idea how this was possible as we were all starving and now drunk, but we jovially giggled and teased the bartender.

The Maitre D did not fare so well when he returned with another suggestion.  This time, filled with false bravado, he suggested the chef’s table.  Normally this is a table in the kitchen where the chef serves you directly and makes sample dishes and such.  This is an honor I would have jumped at had we been in Gordon Ramsey’s restaurant or Emeril’s or Wolfgang’s.  We were not. 

“Look,” I told him with extreme patience, “I am not paying forty dollars a plate to sit at the counter at Denny’s.”

Michael spat wine out his nose.  Our poor little Maitre ‘d scurried back up to the safety of his podium.

We were finally seated an hour an a half past our reservation.  We were comped another bottle of wine and a round of appetisers.  Dinner was wonderful and there was a lot of sucking up from the waitstaff – as it should be.

I’ve got a handle on the local Maitre ‘ds.  I don’t pretend I could handle a big city one like New York or **gasp** Paris, but one of these days maybe I’ll get a shot at it.