[Previous: "Thank you"] [Back to blog] [Next: "What's in your purse?"]
Good friend LD and I were to hook up for dinner tonight, so I suggested Central City Market, a gourmet grocery downtown that has tables for dining. LD for some reason didn't hear me say that they didn't have table service there, and after we walked in, he was at first disappointed.
So he suggested we walk over to the super-hoity-toity sushi place next door; I forget the name. I was skeptical. I said that they didn't look like they would take our kind there, what with him wearing a Skinny Puppy T-shirt and black mascara, and I with wet hair, a T-shirt and jeans.
We walked up to the maitre d', who was at a podium right outside the door, and LD said, "Two, please." The maitre d' glanced down at his book, then into the restaurant, then looked us over. "Um, it's about a 45-minute wait." I stole a peek inside. It didn't appear to be busy, much less full. "Fuck 'em," LD said, loud enough for the maitre d' to hear. I'm sure the maitre d' was trying to get rid of us. With not enough time to drive around looking for another place to eat, we ended up back at Central City Market anyway, which in the end was fine with LD, because we both enjoyed our sandwiches, the alternative '80s music was cool, and we were the only ones in there.
Later, I'd wished we'd had enough time to wait out the 45 minutes, just so the sushi place would either have had to tell us to our faces to bug off or serve us. Our money is as good as any of those rich white people's who were in there.
Current mood: Full