Category: dinner

A Saturday Night in Candlelight.

A Lesson in Dating.

My best friend and I did a little something different last Saturday night for our standing date and decided to indulge in something a bit more refined than usual.  We dressed in our best clothes, he was in a black suit and tie, me slipped into a lilac silk dress.  We set off for the most elegant Italian restaurant in our area, a place that always feels like a small escape from the ordinary.

Traffic was light, which was a surprise for a Saturday night, which brought us to the restaurant sooner than our reservation time.  We parked the car and decided that since we had about twenty minutes to spare, we would take a leisurely walk in the adjoining park that is part of the restaurant property.  The evening air was cool and fresh, and the night sky held starry constellations and a full moon.  The soft lights lit our way on the curved paved walkway, and by the time we made the full circuit, it was time to meet our reservation.

We stepped through the glass-and-wood doors and entered the lounge, which is our favorite room in the entire establishment.  A carved oak bar was well-stocked and gleamed beneath soft lighting.  Together they created a warm, inviting ambience that seemed to embrace us the moment we arrived.

A poised hostess, dressed head‑to‑toe in black and adorned with a star sapphire necklace, remembered us and greeted us with a gracious smile.  She guided us into the main dining room, where we were soon settled into a high‑backed booth.  The varnished oak table covered with a crisp white linen tablecloth held tall, elegant salt and pepper grinders, and a large votive candle flickered at its center, casting a gentle glow.  We placed our drink orders, a Peroni for Best Friend, a pinot noir for me.  Our waitress brought warm slices of fresh bread accompanied by herbed olive oil and took our orders.  I was blissfully content.  Restaurants of this caliber are rare in our area, ones that have heavy silverware, substantial furniture, chandeliers, leatherette seating, and soft, unobtrusive music that completed the atmosphere.

As we settled in, we lingered over conversation until our first course arrived: a crisp, chilled salad for Best Friend and a steaming cup of Italian Wedding Soup for me. Before long, our entrées followed.  Best Friend’s pollo con verdure and my pollo alla cacciatora, were both fragrant, beautifully plated, and still releasing curls of steam.  Our waitress completed the moment with a delicate snowfall of freshly grated Parmesan atop our entrées.  Each bite was rich and comforting, and we allowed ourselves the luxury of eating slowly, savoring both the food and our company.

Then the music began.  A pianist’s gentle melody drifted through the restaurant, subtle, unhurried, and perfectly attuned to the evening’s mood.  It wrapped itself around the room like a soft ribbon of sound, enhancing the glow of the chandeliers and the warmth of our little corner.  In that moment, with good food before us and quiet elegance all around, the night felt complete with a small reminder that even familiar rituals can become something extraordinary when shared with someone dearly loved.

 

 

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Wigged Out.

At dinner the other evening at the country club, we sat at a table at the back of the restaurant, nestled in a cozy alcove dimly lit by a warm, flickering candle in a glass votive.  Our wine glasses of glimmered in the low light.  The clinking of silverware and the soft hum of chatter filled the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter from a boisterous group near the bar.

Across from us, a couple sat at the immediate table opposite ours.  They immediately drew my attention with their striking contrast.  She was a petite, frail-looking woman, her presence almost ephemeral, yet undeniably elegant.  Her baggy, sequined blouse sparkled faintly under the muted light, a deep emerald green that complemented the intricate plastic pearls cascading down her neck.  Her white pants, cut high to mid-calf, were snug and showed off her caboose.  Every gesture of hers was deliberate, placing her napkin, adjusting her sleek clutch, moving her wine glass, as though she were orchestrating a performance of refinement.

Across from her sat the undeniable foil to her practiced image.  He was a large man, his frame spilling over the edges of the overstuffed dining chair.  His attire was an amusing affront to hers: a pair of sagging khaki shorts, socks with sandals, and a faded, nondescript polo shirt, the type that might have been gray once but had since resigned itself to a black, lavender, taupe ambiguity.  His bulbous nose was faintly red, matching the ruddiness of his face.

But the pièce de resistance became the highlight of the evening.   It was his hair.  His hair—or rather, what aspired to be his hair was . . .  “different.”  A Just for Men “Darkest Red Brown” masterpiece of a wig was perched atop his head, so incongruous with the rest of his appearance it felt like a punchline to a joke only he didn’t quite get.  The thick, wavy wig seemed precarious, as if it might slide off at the slightest provocation.  It sat too high, too perfect, too ruddy-brown and defying both gravity and reason.

He leaned back in his chair with an air of self-satisfaction, plucking at a breadstick while his lady friend sipped delicately from a wine glass.  They exchanged sporadic words, her responses curt and his booming laugh echoing through the restaurant, prompting raised eyebrows and glares from nearby diners.

They were a spectacle, a living contradiction, a joke, an editorial cartoon.  The woman seemed to be holding onto a bygone era of sophistication, while the man seemed content to bulldoze through it, unbothered by appearances or subtlety.  Yet, there was something oddly appealing about them with a mystery to unravel, a story hidden beneath the surface of their mismatched personas.

 

 

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