how not to do fine dining, ever.

fine dining (or loud bars for that matter) are an interesting experience.

the waiter comes up to you with the menu. he's really pushing you for the prix fixed menu that they created for a very high price. there's also a normal menu. but he shies you away from that. you look across the table and let the other person decide, our of curtsey. or so you think. the other person knows that you will be covering the bill and so does not feel entirely comfortable picking between an expensive menu or a custom selection. they don't say this out loud because they don't want to have to, so they ask you to pick. you don't realize this. so you insist that they pick. they look back at you. "i'd like you to be decisive about this." oh shit. there's probably a reason they said that. so you think about it and you realize. so then you say you'd like this one appetizer that you've had before. you look at the prix fixed menu and realize it's not on there. so you decide to the normal menu. you're not all that hungry and didn't plan on ordering much for yourself, but now you realize that you fucked up. so you decide to order one item off every part of the menu. you try to fix it by asking the other person which option they'd like for an entree and a kebab. you don't really care about what's eaten tonight because that's not the point of coming out to a nice place. all you want is for the other person to truly have a satiated and enjoyable time. for you, it's always been about good company and it's hard to put a time limit or a price tag on those treasured experiences. anyway, the person across the table approves of your decisiveness and say what they want. relief.

i never really cared for ambiences, but i'll definitely try to appreciate them. i think i feel a bit too ping pong minded to sit around in one place and eat in a loud room where i can't really hear the person across from me.

so i'll start by counting the number of lights around me. then the number of chairs. tables. napkins. forks and knife pairs. then i'll get tired of counting and look at the lights again. a warm glow from the lights -- do their light reflect upwards first to scatter the glare or pour directly down? then i'll try to look at colors. the chairs are brown with cushions. tables are a stone color or a nice glass. napkins are a deep blue. utensils are silver. then your mind spazzes to random things. there are flat wooden benches on the other side. do peoples' butts hurt? tables are round, for two. napkins folded with the utensils inside. then i'll look around at the people around me. maybe i'll eavesdrop. maybe i'll imagine myself inside one of their minds and see if i can notice the awkwardness that i must be giving off by clearly not paying attention to whatever else is around me that i should be paying attention to. then you try a third person, narrator perspective. maybe you add an australian accent to the internal narrator. you chuckle, that was kinda funny. you couldn't tell if that was british or australian. you realize there's no evident reason to be laughing, so you return into your own first person perspective to re-set things.

another thing about fine dining or fancy restaurants is that the food is never really that good. it's never really been los corrales or salernos satiating, so i just haven't cared for it. it probably reflects my own lack of taste, not anything negative about the experience itself. but because the food is always just mid, i find it hard to commit myself to focusing on it.

i feel bad about thinking about random things like lights, chairs, tables, napkins, and utensils when i go out to eat with someone whose time and presence i value. so i'll go back to trying to focus on them. but then because the restaurant is too loud and i'm across the table from them instead of right next to them, i can't make a connection. so i'll flounder around with a mix of small and deep talk. but unless luck strikes and the person auto-engages with some little thing you said, there will always be a barrier. the metaphorical brick wall is also the table and the noise. so then you get frustrated. it's clearly not the person across the table that's the problem, it's you and/or the experience.

and if it's you, then you must fix it. if you're thinking about this, then why shouldn't or wouldn't the person across the table. Do something different. But there's nothing different to do. Aha, nonverbal communication. You decide that the conversation may be failing you so you cut it out. Smart, smart. Except not really. In the other person's view, you've just gone mute and are now trying to act like a mime. What's wrong with him, they must be thinking. Now you notice that they're amused but not quite super comfortable with the fact that the person across the table is quirk-ing out. So you stop and use your voice to say stuff again. And everything returns to sorta normal. You still can't hear much and the food's still not to the taste of your unrefined palette. Maybe the number of lights, chairs, tables, napkins, and utensils have changed? No, you tell yourself. Stop thinking. You will yourself into no thoughts. Luckily you're with a person you yourself are comfortable with (who knows the other way around though). But now you're left there kinda not thinking much. Time goes by. This is great. Empty mind. Wow. Let's keep doing this. So then you start thinking about having an empty mind and the person across the table is still unsure about what all may be happening. Actually, they're enjoying the food and the ambience though so they're probably not. But you decide to explain your empty mind thought and then realize you should have just shut the fuck up.

Then later in the day you realize you:

(1) don't know how to open a bottle of wine

(2) didn't tell the person the plans, so you can't really walk around and be spontaneous because they wore heels

(3) are a complete moron and are really very not great at setting expectations for a night out and planning