“That’s a lot of money for something that’s going to end up in the toilet.”

That’s my reaction to eating at fancy restaurants these days. We were on a long weekend trip and wanted to get together with some friends. They suggested their favorite restaurant. We said “OK.” We ended up spending about $350 for the meal.

Sheesh.

I am so over restaurants. I feel like restaurants are the worst kind of indulgence.

  • You stress about getting a reservation, which is basically permission to spend your money at the restaurant. You’re all happy like you won the lottery if you “get in.”
  • You show up and everyone fawns over you and waits on you like you’re the queen of something.
  • There are all these little stupid euphemisms, like how the menu says “crispy” instead of “fried,” and when the waiter goes to take away your mostly empty plate and he says, “May I clear this, or are you still enjoying it?”
  • The menu descriptions have to say the lettuce is “local” and the tomatoes are “heirloom,” like there’s no way you can get this stuff at your local supermarket.
  • The waiter congratulates you on your menu choices. Like he’s going to say, “I wouldn’t get the duck if I were you.”
  • Someone refolds your napkin when you get up to use the bathroom. Why?
  • Maybe the chef comes over and really piles it on. In this case, the chef overheard my husband remarking that there were not many red meat choices on the menu, so she offered to make him something special. He took her up on it.
  • You get a freebie, like an extra dessert, and you’re sooooo impressed.
  • You can’t get over how the food is so good. Of course it is! You would never put this much fat, sugar and salt in food you make at home. You would never spend hours prepping vegetables, making stocks, reducing sauces and everything else. Nor should you.

We had one of these marathon sessions of eating and drinking and all I could think was “I would so much rather spend this money and time doing anything else.” The pleasure for me was in visiting with friends, not stuffing my face. I would have been just as happy having a meal at a little ethnic restaurant, or a picnic in the park, or best yet, eating at home.

When we left the restaurant, my husband kept gushing about it. He went to the bathroom to turn some of the $100 bottle of Pinot Noir into urine, so when he returned, I said: “It was nice, but that’s a lot of money for something that’s going to end up in the toilet.”

His face fell. I have to remember that line for next time.

Sobriety

I am laying off the drink for a while. I have never been a big drinker; even in college I’d have 2 or 3 beers and call it a night. But lately even one drink is too much. It’s like my body can’t metabolize it anymore. I was no more than halfway through the gin & tonic for evening cocktails on Thursday when a headache bloomed in my brain. It stayed there for four days.

I had no alcohol on Christmas Eve, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, or New Year’s Day. I haven’t done four sober holidays in a row since I was 16.

Is my husband on board? Perhaps this photo of his shopping excursion last week tells the tale better than I can:

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I am trying a sober January. We’ll see how this goes.