So, tonight the husband and I experienced that rare occasion known as “an evening out.” You know, dinner, drinks, conversation – A DATE. There wasn’t a booster seat or chicken nugget in sight, and the only food I had to cut up was my own luscious salmon (which by the way, I was able to enjoy without hearing complaints about how my meal smelled like a “stinky monkey.”)
Funny thing though, hubby decided to choose the place: a relaxed, low-key place known for its awesome beer called The Firkin. We’ve always wanted to try this place, but haven’t had a chance – and well, we still haven’t. After parking in the back lot, we walk to the building and see a sign saying enter. so that’s just what we do. My first clue we may have made a mistake was when the host, Mr. Snooty Pink-Shirt, asks if we have a reservation. My spouse simply replies, “Do we need one?” Obviously not, because we are seated promptly at a nice little table by the window. Clue #2 arrives when Mr. Snooty Pink Shirt smothers us with the wine list, and I laugh and say, “Oh – we’re here for the beer,” causing the snooty-smirk on Mr. Snooty Pink Shirt’s face to crease several more degrees to the south. And finally, clue #3: the menu is emblazoned with the name The Tavern. Hmmm…well, I suppose, since the place we planned to patronize was, by definition, a tavern – then we could be in the right place…or, more likely, we were in the hoity-toity little restaurant next door that was actually called The Tavern.
So, now we are faced with a decision…do we smile and run or stay and buy overpriced fish served by smarmy people in monochromatic colors?
Ah, what the hell, we stay.
The overpriced fish was very nice, and the conversation was wonderful – which, after all, was why we went out in the first place.
So, hubby, if you read this – thanks for the nice night out – I had a great time.
Maybe next date (which will hopefully happen in a month from now rather than a year from now) we can try Firkin…again.