We were at the most exclusive restaurant in The City. The sort of place you have to call, literally the minute they open, on the first of the month to get a reservation — any reservation — for next month, and be happy to clear your schedule for the time they give you. Where you decide that, rather than setting aside this month’s IRA contribution, you’ll go out to dinner instead.
Their chef’s world-class reputation was unparalleled and well-deserved. We laughed to ourselves at the quiet-as-a-bank-vault ambiance (which, considering their price’ fixe dinner, seemed somehow appropriate). Tables were spaced so far apart we were practically dining alone. There was one waiter whose only task was to make sure each diner had a fresh, hot, house-made dinner roll at all times.
There I was, not yet 40 years old, a hippie small businessman turned entrepreneur with not just one, but two hugely successful businesses, profiled on national TV and featured on the cover of the local Sunday magazine section; a six figure income — when that was still a lot — owner of a large home in a chic section of one of the world’s most desirable cities; about to have an extraordinary dinner with the woman I considered the most beautiful, powerful, and intelligent I had ever known — my wife. I was a happy man. (I don’t know, maybe I’m just easy to please.)
A few sips of wine and I was transported. As the heebie jeebies crawled up my spine, exploded in my head, and my eyes brimmed with joy, I looked at her with absolute and total love — ecstatic to be able to share this incredible largesse with the woman of my dreams.
“Take your elbows off the table,” she said.
. . .
– Published in the Readers Write column of The Sun magazine
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