Last night I got all gussied up to join Nixxx for a fancy meal at Mastro’s Steakhouse. She’s been wanting to thank me for that time I helped her get a car (which she named Gary) AND she had a gift card that’s been sitting in her wallet for the last three years.
We parked around the block because valet is for the lazy, which is really just a jealous thing poor people say. As we walked down the street, Nixxx told me about how her ex used to take her to steakhouses all over Maryland.
“He was right,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how poor you are. In places like these you can go in with ripped jeans, be roudy, just as long as you act like you own the place. You have to be demanding and assertive and they’ll believe anything.”
“Sure,” I said. “But it’s still nice to dress up and act civilized.”
When the server asked what type of water we wanted, I said a bottle of San Pellegrino. When he returned and started pouring it in our glasses, my nose was deep in the wine menu. Without looking up I ordered a bottle of red from Spain.
“I tell your server,” he replied in broken English.
I looked up and it was the busser who had dropped off the water. Well, if I didn’t feel like part of the crowd, that definitely made me fit in with the rest of the uninterested rich who like to order from the help. I apologized. The rest of the night was amazing. My rare filet was out of this world and the Gorgonzola mac and cheese was so good that when I finished I told the waiter that I was gonna have to unbutton my pants. Now that was more like me.