Shari and I are taking our sons out for dinner and theater. It’s a Saturday night so my son is not thrilled with this plan. Both Alexander and Sam will be 17 next week and we thought it would be nice to celebrate together (the boys are classmates and friends). I volunteer to choose the restaurant.
I research on menupages.com. Wherever we eat must meet three criteria: be in close proximity to the theater, be reasonably priced, and have a menu that will appeal to everyone (with me being the hardest to please). I’ve already rejected a new fixed price steak house that Shari suggests. It serves ONLY Caesar salad, French fries and all-you-can-eat-steak with some secret sauce that sounds heavenly but is loaded with butter. Dinner there would probably eat up my entire food allowance for the week. I finally decide on a French Bistro where none of us have eaten before. The online menu is large and varied and should satisfy everyone.
We get to the restaurant and I order the prix fixe dinner: salad, salmon with olive mashed potatoes, and dessert. The salad is tiny and basic (arugula, tomatoes, cucumber and a small piece of feta cheese). The salmon is so undercooked that the inside looks like orange jello (I send it back). And the muddy grey potatoes, buried under the salmon, look scary but taste great. The chocolate mousse dessert is maybe the best I’ve ever had. With much restraint, I eat only half and give the rest to Shari.
We leave the restaurant and I wonder how I’m going to count the olive mashed potatoes. And the chocolate mousse, even half, must be so many points. I get anxious thinking about the brunch I committed to for tomorrow, at another French restaurant. I text my nephews and explain why I can’t join them. I’m sure they’ll understand.
The one-woman play we see starring Anna Deavere Smith is excellently performed, but the topic (our flawed health care system and dying) drains Alexander and me of all energy.
We get home and need replenishment-he with ice cream and me with writing.
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