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I went to an expensive restaurant the other day, and they handed me a cloth napkin. I felt like I was auditioning for a part in Downton Abbey. I didn't know whether to wipe my face or polish the silverware.
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I ordered a dessert that came with edible gold leaf. Edible gold! I don't need my dessert to have more bling than I do. I want to enjoy my chocolate cake, not plan my retirement around it.
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At these places, they bring the bill in a leather-bound folder, like it's a classified document. I open it slowly, half-expecting to find a hidden message saying, "Congratulations, you just spent your life savings on a salad.
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In an expensive restaurant, they describe the wine as if it's a romantic novel. "This Merlot has hints of blackberry, with a whisper of oak, and a touch of existential angst." I just want a wine that pairs well with pizza without giving an existential crisis.
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The chef at this expensive restaurant came out to explain the dish. I appreciate the enthusiasm, but if it takes a 10-minute explanation to understand what's on my plate, maybe we need a culinary translator.
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You ever been to one of those fancy, expensive restaurants where the menu looks like a Shakespearean play? I just wanted a burger, not a dramatic soliloquy about the cow's noble sacrifice.
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They handed me a menu with no prices. It's like playing Russian roulette with my wallet. I don't want to order a steak and find out it costs more than my car.
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The portions at these places are so small; I left the restaurant still on a first-name basis with my hunger. I had to swing by a drive-thru on the way home just to fill the void.
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The waiter asked if I wanted still or sparkling water. I asked for tap water and felt like I committed a crime against hydration. It's like they have a water hierarchy, and I just dropped to the bottom rung.
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