Whilst crossing the threshold of what was reported to be one of the finest new restaurants in town, I was informed that my chapeau was not apropos. Here I was, dressed in my finest haute couture, expecting to enjoy nouvelle cuisine with the community’s intelligentsia, being told I had made a faux pas that suggested I was bourgeois. A vapid, but stern, servant demanded that I could only enter the dining room sans hat.
My retort: “Methinks thou should go forth and fornicate thyself.”
What is it with ultra-fancy restaurants who give you the hairy eyeball at the door to see if you’re good enough for them. Hey, my credit card is just as good as that foppish twit over there, so give me a table and a bib ‘cause I’m about to tuck into some of those short ribs. By the way, is there ketchup on the table?
Today we rip into restaurants who believe they are the arbiters of good taste – and I’m not talking about their food. I’m pulling on my well-worn jeans, donning an “I’m with stupid” t-shirt and wearing well scented gym shoes to expose those demented posers. Now grab a can of Milwaukee’s Best and let’s go. I’m calling shotgun.