The Night That Dinner Tried to
Defeat Us
A Three Act Tragicomedy
Act I:
Before the fiasco even began, I had already put in over an hour of researching restaurants because we were determined to try something different than our usual haunts. I looked over menus, reviews, photos, checking out the vibes each gave me — the whole “Michele Method” of looking for a place to eat.
And so it began:
The plan — and I use that word loosely — was to go to this Irish
pub/steakhouse hybrid that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be when it grew
up. The reviews were… let’s call them “optimistically concerning.” But our
friends had been asking us for months to try it with them, so fine...we said
let’s go and decide for ourselves.
I made the reservation for 6 p.m. We didn’t have to leave for 30 minutes,
so I poured some pre-fiasco wine.
Meanwhile, I had my heart set on another place — because their menu had a
24‑oz bone‑in ribeye that I hadn’t stopped thinking about sinking my teeth into
ever since I laid eyes on it on their website. But fate said, “Not tonight,
chef.”
Then I got the text: “Sorry, have to cancel” I was a tad upset- but in
the tiniest way- because now I could get the ribeye destiny intended! I cancel
the original reservation and make a new one for 6:30 for the ribeye place!
Act II: The Restaurant that Catfished us
When we finally pulled up to the restaurant, the outside looked… tired
(and that’s an understatement). But I said, “It’s okay. We’re here for the food
and the inside online looked decent and the place got good reviews (for all
that it’s worth).”
Then we walked inside.
Now imagine a fast‑food burger joint. Now imagine that same burger joint
handing you a tri‑fold paper menu filled with “high‑end dishes” like
they were auditioning for a Michelin star. And although we had a reservation, I
was handed those menus at the counter and told to “sit anywhere.” The cognitive
dissonance was so strong I could hear my brain rebooting.
We sat. We looked around. Suddenly we felt we were in a deli with a
dream! We looked at the menu. We looked at each other. The server comes over
and asks if we would like anything to drink. I look over the counter where we
first entered, and I saw wine glasses hanging on a rack. I reluctantly asked if
they serve alcohol – but it was too much to hope for-
I got a resounding “NO - but you can bring your own!”
I said – “That would have been
fine, had I known!” She asked if we needed a few minutes to review the menu- I
said yes and she walked away— My chef
instincts kicked in like a fire alarm, and we walked out. I simply could not
bring myself to order a $45 Ribeye in a room that looked like it should’ve had
a self-serve soda fountain and a laminated “Order Here” sign.
So we got back in the car and decided to head toward the original
place — somewhere down that same road was the Irish pub we had booked earlier
and then canceled. Fine. Maybe they take walk-ins! Whatever. At this point we
just wanted dinner.
We’re driving. It felt like fifteen minutes. We’re talking,
decompressing, trying to salvage the night. And then Roger — that knows me
better than I know myself — turns to me
and asks the $99,000 question that detonated:
“Did you remember to put your teeth in?”
Silence. Absolute silence. I mean you could hear crickets. Because the
answer was no.
No, I
did not.
I
forgot.
I
forget the teeth a lot.
One
would think after a year of having bottom dentures, I would remember —
but Nooooooo!
I
apologized. Several times. And my husband who has definitely grown patience over
the years thanks to me testing them every step of the way… he tells me “It’s
OK, I still love you, but if this was anyone else …”
He knew
what he signed up for— he read the fine
print and accepted his fate, initialing every page and he has fully subscribed
with no refunds or cancelations, because he loves me, and because living with
me is comical. Let me put it this way, I goober things… A lot.
So what do we do? We U‑turn like we’re in a Fast and Furious movie called
“Furious & Famished”. It’s now 7:00 p,m-ish…we left the house at 6 and
traveled the emotional equivalent of 600 miles! We now have to drive thirty
minutes back home, so I can put my teeth in like a grown-up. At this point,
we’ve been out for so long and haven’t even made it to a breadbasket.
Finally — FINALLY — we give up and go to a local place we know is good.
Reliable. Comfort food for the soul.
Except the universe wasn’t done with us yet.
Act III: The Significant
Other
We get to the restaurant and get seated. Immediately I notice two tables
over was The Patron From Hell — a 30 something woman who spent her
entire meal verbally belittling and yelling at her significant other like she
was auditioning for “The Real Housewives Of The Pocono Mountains” or possibly a
new reality show called “Berate Your Partner: The Restaurant Edition”. Either
way— she was the lead character!
I could swear she didn’t even breathe between her words. She didn’t
pause. She didn’t take her eyes off him. She just loudly verbalized how he does
this and that; sctually stated several times “You’re doing it now!” Which no
one in the restaurant understood, because he wasn’t doing a thing- just sitting
there quietly with his head partially down like he was walking in death row. And
she just kept going… she took a bite, was belligerent again, took another bit, and
so on and so on.
The poor man never touched his food. He just sat there like a man
accepting his life sentence and silently questioning his choice in women.
Everyone was watching. Staring. Whispering. The staff was probably traumatized.
After about 30 minutes, the owner had to intervene. And even after her apologizing
to the owner, she kept going soon as he walked away— just at lower levels…Sort
of.
We were sitting there like: “Sir, blink twice if you need help!” I kept
saying to Roger He should just get up and leave her here, go home and pack! The
entertainment was certainly not what we expected, especially after all we had
just gone through. But it was fitting of the prior part of our evening- and it sure
turned into one giant Fiasco for this True Tuesday Story!
And that, my friends, was our night.
The Takeaway:
Sometimes the universe doesn’t give you the night you planned — it gives you the night you’ll be laughing about for years. Between the restaurant we didn’t make it to, and the catfish joint, the forgotten teeth, and the Queen of Nightmares happening two tables over, we consumed chaos and finally – a good meal. That’s what makes it a Forks & Fiascos comedy, seasoned with patience, and served with a side of “you can’t make this stuff up.”
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