Out to eat last August with a date, my friend Fred noticed he had a choice to either park himself or use the valet service for a ten spot. Always conscious of value, Fred chose to skip the valet and drove to a place on a nearby street. After a short walk to the restaurant front door, the valet asked Fred if he had just seen him driving by in a car. Fred said yes. The man said that he was sorry but that to eat in the restaurant they must use the valet service.
Taken aback, Fred then spotted two people crossing the street and walking past them into the restaurant. So he asked the valet, “What about those people?”
“Oh, they live nearby,” came the reply.
“So let me get this straight,” Fred said. “I can eat in this restaurant only if I let you valet park my car or if I purchase a home within walking distance?”
“That’s correct sir,” answered the valet.
“OK, let us just go in and take a look at a menu to decide if we even want to eat here,” came Fred’s proposal.
“That will be fine, sir.”
“If we’re still inside in 30 or 45 minutes, are you coming after us?”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary sir.”
So they walked through the door to a beautiful and modern décor, but also to a temperature as warm as it had been outside. It comforted Fred somewhat that the air conditioning system was breaking down, and that the owners would have to use their ill-gotten valet gains to fix it. He smiled as he and his date came back outside and walked past the valet, his tip money still intact.
The hungry couple moved on to their next choice; a spot, Fred says, with the best spaghetti and meatballs in the world, which he’s always in the mood for.
They arrived and parked, without assistance.
Inside, as they waited for a table, Fred became annoyed at the Maitre D’s attention to the people calling in and ordering take out.
Fred’s philosophy is, “If I’m willing to get a date, get dressed up, drive down, and spend an hour and a half dining in your place of business, plus leave a liberal tip, then for heaven’s sake, please put my needs over those lazy people who probably can’t get a date in the first place, and lie around all day in their sweat clothes before finally deciding to call in for some food.”
At least Fred has a philosophy.
Finally, they were seated and soon ordered fried mozzarella, Caesar salads, Buckler beer, and the mouth-watering entrée.
The evening was finally turning out as Fred had imagined. The beers and appetizers had promptly arrived, and he gazed across the table into the eyes of his lovely date.
There are rare special moments when all seems right with the world, and Fred had landed softly in one of them. He was sitting in a comfortable chair, looking at a beautiful woman; his beer was cold and the appetizers were warm. There were friends seated nearby whom he was glad to see, and who were glad to see him. His career was going well, his golf game was better than ever, and his hot little sports car was parked nearby, free of charge. It all seemed so perfect.
But nothing ever is, as a voice from above reminded him with, “Sorry, sir, we’re all out of meatballs.”
Jay Edwards is editor-in-chief of the Hamilton County Herald and an award-winning columnist. Contact him at jedwards@dailydata.com.
O
ut to eat last August with a date, my friend Fred noticed he had a choice to either park himself or use the valet service for a ten spot. Always conscious of value, Fred chose to skip the valet and drove to a place on a nearby street. After a short walk to the restaurant front door, the valet asked Fred if he had just seen him driving by in a car. Fred said yes. The man said that he was sorry but that to eat in the restaurant they must use the valet service.
Taken aback, Fred then spotted two people crossing the street and walking past them into the restaurant. So he asked the valet, “What about those people?”
“Oh, they live nearby,” came the reply.
“So let me get this straight,” Fred said. “I can eat in this restaurant only if I let you valet park my car or if I purchase a home within walking distance?”
“That’s correct sir,” answered the valet.
“OK, let us just go in and take a look at a menu to decide if we even want to eat here,” came Fred’s proposal.
“That will be fine, sir.”
“If we’re still inside in 30 or 45 minutes, are you coming after us?”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary sir.”
So they walked through the door to a beautiful and modern décor, but also to a temperature as warm as it had been outside. It comforted Fred somewhat that the air conditioning system was breaking down, and that the owners would have to use their ill-gotten valet gains to fix it. He smiled as he and his date came back outside and walked past the valet, his tip money still intact.
The hungry couple moved on to their next choice; a spot, Fred says, with the best spaghetti and meatballs in the world, which he’s always in the mood for.
They arrived and parked, without assistance.
Inside, as they waited for a table, Fred became annoyed at the Maitre D’s attention to the people calling in and ordering take out.
Fred’s philosophy is, “If I’m willing to get a date, get dressed up, drive down, and spend an hour and a half dining in your place of business, plus leave a liberal tip, then for heaven’s sake, please put my needs over those lazy people who probably can’t get a date in the first place, and lie around all day in their sweat clothes before finally deciding to call in for some food.”
At least Fred has a philosophy.
Finally, they were seated and soon ordered fried mozzarella, Caesar salads, Buckler beer, and the mouth-watering entrée.
The evening was finally turning out as Fred had imagined. The beers and appetizers had promptly arrived, and he gazed across the table into the eyes of his lovely date.
There are rare special moments when all seems right with the world, and Fred had landed softly in one of them. He was sitting in a comfortable chair, looking at a beautiful woman; his beer was cold and the appetizers were warm. There were friends seated nearby whom he was glad to see, and who were glad to see him. His career was going well, his golf game was better than ever, and his hot little sports car was parked nearby, free of charge. It all seemed so perfect.
But nothing ever is, as a voice from above reminded him with, “Sorry, sir, we’re all out of meatballs.”
Jay Edwards is editor-in-chief of the Hamilton County Herald and an award-winning columnist. Contact him at jedwards@dailydata.com. v