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Tuesday, February 15, 2005
 
Love is a Bouquet of Flowers from the Grocery Store. Love is a Bottle of Low-Grade Champagne. Love is Prix Fixe.
For the third year running, we shared Valentine’s Night dinner with the Glory Holes. This year it was at a 4-star(ish) restaurant* in town that, amazingly, I’ve never been to. Not that I frequent 4-star(ish) restaurants, but I’ve been just about everywhere in town once . . . especially places that have been open for years and years and years.

Once seated, we were presented with our menu—a very stripped-down prix fixe menu that featured four courses. In typical fashion, I skipped to the bottom to see that price for the dinner was $35 a person, which seemed reasonable. But wait . . . one appetizer** per couple? And sharing a dessert? (Even more unfair, the dessert wasn’t a fern-bar-sized slab of 3,000-calorie, ice-cream covered cheesecake. It was downright, fucking dainty. I had a couple bites and was, like, “You go ahead and finish that, honey.”) So, yeah, in retrospect, seems like a little bit of a rip off.

And the entrée selections? Perhaps lacking. For a vegetarian and/or seafood lover, it was top-notch. Filet mignon and rack of lamb as the only non-sea creature dishes? Michelle and Mr. Glory Hole went with the grouper, and Mrs. Glory Hole chose the filet. I was about to do the same, but picked a seafood pasta with spicy tomato sauce. Apparently, this turned out to be something Mr. Glory Hole would’ve loved, because there was a very high seafood-to-pasta ratio, and a lot of the shell-bound creatures were still in their shells, including lobster chunks and clams. Lots of clams. I thought it was a lot of work for $35, but it’s the experience, right?

In the end, a great time was had by all. Afterward, Michelle and I went to pick Mia up from the grandparents, drove back home, and (romantically) watched The Bachelorette and Super Nanny. Because—not only are we whores for Hallmark, florists, and restaurants—we’re whores for ABC and network television.


* For translation, a 4-star restaurant in Tallahassee would be a 3-star (or less) in a much larger city. Shit, it’d probably be just another fern bar in NYC.

** The real appetizer, though, was making brief eye contact with Herr Governor on the sidewalk on the way to the restaurant. I shit you not. I nodded, too. I mean, what kind of whore am I? Not that I’m supposed to kick him in the shins and yell, “Take that, FASCIST!” Because he’s not a small man. No sir. Not like his brother.