I must be getting old...
When I go out to a restaurant I have a list of elements
that must be there for me to have a good time...
I want to be at a restaurant that has a tempting, varied menu...
The food should arrive, well portioned, appealing,
and most of all, tasty and hot...
The waitstaff should treat me like a human being,
not a four or two top that should be rushed
in and out to maximize turnover...
The ambiance may be lively,
but not so boisterous as to cause me
to shout to my dinner companion...
That's what sports bars are for...
And lastly, the restrooms should be attractive and clean,
so I don't feel like I need to hover over the seat,
if you know what I mean...
I'd like a dry spot to land my purse
while I refresh my lipstick, too, thank you...
That's it...
My requirements are simple and reasonable,
don't you think?
The latest trend in eateries, it seems,
is to greatly impress and elevate the twenty-something population...
This must be the case,
because my non-scientific survey
of my aging peer group agree
that the hottest, hippest "resto's"
are not of interest to them...
Case in point...
What is up with the new obsession for "small plates"?
I like a visit to a tapas eatery now and then,
but sometimes, the three course, supper club style meal is what I want...
I don't always want to share everything
that is passed around the table...
By the time the foie gras dumplings get to my side of the table,
all that is left is the nage of celery root...
I'd like more than a miniscule nibble of the turnip gastrique
with marshmallow foam...
To me, this small plate phenomenon
is an extension of our shorter attention spans...
If you are taking bites here and there,
you have time to sneak in a tweet,
glimpse at your Facebook page via mobile,
or God forbid, text another girl
while on a date with someone else...
Forget meaningful conversations over beef bourguignon
and a deeply flavored cab...
The experience screams sound bite, or shall I say small bite?
Some of the new restaurants T$ and I have sampled lately
have been pushing the idea of the neo casual,
beer halls meets cafeteria type of facility...
Fancy dining is not our schtick,
but when the deafening roar of poor acoustics
limits our dinner conversation to single syllable
tourette-like outbursts, I draw the line...
A few weeks ago, we decided to take an out of town guest
to dinner in the hip West Randolph corridor of Chicago...
Many hot new chefs have their shingles dangling
from this urban foodie haven, to rave reviews...
It might be easier to find red hot Black Hawks hockey tickets
than to find a seat in some of their restaurants lately...
a small plates venue
set in an Oktoberfest beer hall-esque setting...
Although carniverous in nature,
the menu had some delicious plates
and although we generally could not hear each other speak,
the meal was tasty overall...
Since our reservation was early in the evening,
(not our preference, we are NOT early bird special people yet!),
we asked the hostess for a suggestion
of where to have a drink in the 'hood...
She looked around and acted as if she was privy
to some magical secret
and then told us, in hushed tones,
of a very special drinkery
(yeah, you heard that correctly...)
where she MIGHT be able to secure seats for us...
Huh?
We need reservations to belly up to a bar?!
The Aviary is an exclusive hideaway where the drinks
are complex libations of a unique nature...
But first, you have to get into the joint...
She called ahead, gave our names
and looked unsure if even her influence
would gain us entry into what must be
the holy grail of cocktail heaven...
We walked to The Aviary entrance
that was cloaked in darkness,
no signage to be seen,
to meet a very important looking bouncer,
enrobed in black...
He was wearing a headset,
so he must also direct things
like ordering missile strikes...
I kid you not; we stood out, in the bitter cold,
for fifteen minutes,
with no line of others waiting behind us,
until we were escorted inside...
One couple did stop by to inquire admission,
and this guy, an apparent "regular",
was rebuffed and sent packing...
Gee, did we feel VIP-ish then!
Finally, Mr. Noir Bouncer directed us to the hostess inside...
She took our party of three to a small highboy table
in the middle of a small-ish room...
At first I thought this was a staging area for us
to wait while they secured a booth,
but OH NOOOO...
we were privileged enough to be in THIS room,
among other slouches...
The waiter brought us a tiny menu,
showcasing ten concoctions available that evening...
Okay, I don't profess to be a liquor aficionado of any sort...
I dislike gin and tequila for starters,
but these crazy cocktails were compiled
of ten to twelve different ingredients...
The waiter cringed when my friend asked for a chocolate martini...
The nerve of her!
Facing our teensy table was a massive metal screen
that made me feel like we were cats
on the outside of a giant birdcage...
Inside were the birds; I mean "mixologists",
who prepared their complex drinks to order...
Test tubes were flying,
smoke was rising from swirling chalices,
bunsen burners were flaring...
Among our paltry group of those
not deserving enough to warrant a seat,
were twenty to thirty somethings
with grateful to smug looks on their faces...
"How cool are we to be here?",
I could read on their minds...
Each of us had one drink...
The tab was $68.00...
Honestly, these days it takes saving up for weeks
and an act of Congress for T$
and I to have a night out...
I want to eat well,
I want to have a real conversation
that does not involve discussion
of IPad related punishments or broken dishwashers
and I don't want to feel lucky to have a drink
that costs more than feeding a family of four at McDonalds...
Yep, this gal is getting old...
Old Country Buffet, here we come!
Wait, do they serve beer there?
