You Are Charging How Much??

Got taken out to a sort of fancy restaurant, particulars of the circumstances later, maybe.  Now, you know me.  I shop for clothing at thrift shops and take advantage of senior day for an additional 25% off; I browse the marked-down produce cart, and will stop traffic to snag a banged-up penny from the pavement.  I will squeeze the last stuffings out of a tube of toothpaste and then slit the side of the tube to access additional remains that take me through another day or two.  No cable, no dishwasher, and I have lipsticks from half a century ago.  No, really, I have a tube of my mother's coral that has fake hieroglyphics printed on the tube sold during the time of Elizabeth Taylor appearing in Cleopatra.  I am thrifty.  Not cheap; thrifty.

So imagine the high horse I rode when reading the menu in this place favored by well, younger professionals who don't mind having to shout at each other, it's that noisy.  Fish.  A piece of fish with a few party vegetables arranged around the perimeter for Thirty-three dollahs.  Four green beans, two small wedges of red and yellow pepper, one small roasted potato cut in half, and two oblongs of something orange, maybe a rutabaga, circled above a five inch piece of striped bass, as if the fish were the sun rising on the horizon and the vegetables were the rays of joy.  Yes, the fish was delicious, yes there were chives sprinkled, yes there was a bare teaspoon of glaze de poisson, but for something that is so intangible as this plate of high falutin', I felt something was being pulled, like my leg.

The salad was $9. Nine dollars for lettuce with some cheesy goo on top that wasn't as good as what the host can make himself.  I stayed away from appetizers, but the table ordered oysters that were lovely and another raw something else which was okay but better suited for Sunday mornings with bagels.  I gave up keeping track of price, but lawdgobawmighty, the bill came to more than I have paid for some procedures.  It was said that this was reasonable for whatchoo get, but the next day included a charbroiled hotdog with everything that shifted the world into genuine get you a big Easter hat spring.

The dinner was a coming together of two factions for the sake of a third, and it turned out well in spite of the shouting over the other shouters shouting.  I think the wine pushed the bill up way further, and while it was a nice, dry white from the Russian River, the price of something meant to be whizzed out within the hour was confounding.  The alleged status of food holds an aura for some, and maybe lends an air of exclusivity, of being in the know which performs a proffered social stratification.  Sure, food is meant to be enjoyed, but when it is overpriced and looks like a sixties wall art decoration, or, as the raw smoked salmon, packed and shaped like a can of cat food, I think I am fast becoming a socialist.

For supper this evening, Madam opened a can of clam chowder, on sale at 10 for $10.  It was a quiet meal, but happy for the events that had previously taken place such as the Closet Liberation and the Return of the Prodigal iPod, besides having my son up from DC, which is best of best.  He was out with a friend, scooping up a famous pizza from Bocce Club, a leader in the pie and sauce arena.  I am making up the couch as a bed for him, and look forward, as only a mother can, to seeing her grown child sleeping, to seeing that face as innocent and pure as the day he was four.  A month.  Twelve.  Ever.

I will listen for the latch at the door to open later, and get myself turned in as well.  Pillows, quilts, cushions, cats: they are also happy to see him and have played all night in the newly opened closet.  Good night all, be well, eat like kings.