Fancy Dinner Conversations

I realized that you guys have probably been wringing your hands with worry, haven’t you? “We haven’t seen any restaurant stories from the Fancies! Could it be that Frau Fancy, with all her Nanny troubles, can’t get out?”

Relax! Not go out? Hogwash. I’m sorry if I had you concerned, but nothing terribly exciting to report of late. Although I did manage to score a table at the 2 Michelin starred Pied a Terre recently. As you know, we aren’t “fussy” food eaters but it was on my bucket list, so off we went.

I thought, “Snotty French place! Michelins to boot! This should be rife with blogable tales.” Oh how wrong I was. It was, to put it mildly, perfectly lovely. But that doesn’t mean I’ve nothing to tell. What happens when you go out to a Fancy Restaurant and the whole experience is so fantastic that there is nothing to moan about? What is there to write about?  

The conversation.

“Yeah, I’m not really into strip clubs. I go like once every 7 years,” H said, wiping his mouth and taking a fat swig of vino. The other males at our table nodded in agreement. Like their wives and I are stupid.

“That’s a lie,” I retorted.

“No, seriously. Like once a decade. And only with friends like at a really crazy stag party or something.”

“Dude, you were just in one last year. Don’t you remember that condo we were renting at the beach. Across from the flickering lights screaming ‘Ho Ho Ho’ from the top of a cheap bar? I woke up at 3 am and you weren’t there. You guys had gone to ‘check it out.’”

“Oh yeah. Where we were accosted by Svetlana. She was getting a ‘business degree,’” he laughed. “But I think she was really Polish, not Russian. Cuz she was dancing on a pole, do you get it? Huh?”

Dork.

“And while we’re at it, you do know that I recently had confirmation that when you didn’t come back to the hotel until 7 am the day of our wedding, you were in a South American strip joint. What was that one like? Donkeys involved?” I continued.

“Ha. So you found out about that. Wasn’t my idea though,” he chortled.

“And that is just off the top of my head. So, to summarize darling, you actually visit strip clubs, on average, once every 1 to 2 years. Let’s be precise.”

“Well, fine. But I don’t really go looking for the opportunity,” he concluded. And at this all his mates began nodding in furious agreement, hoping to avoid any similar conversations on the ride home.

And there you have it. Pied a Terre. Worth every little bit of Michelin love and then some. The food was heavenly. The service, both attentive and humble, even jovial I might say. The ambiance, delightful. The conversation, well, that might have been slightly out of place. But that is what happens when you bore the Fancies with your utter perfection. We have to start talking about sex and farm animals and making bad jokes about immigrants. It’s kind of sad really. I might have to make that trip to Beefeaters after all.