There’s this one restaurant that Eric and I go to like once a week. And we go because it’s awesome and familiar and affordable and tasty…and mostly an easy decision (we’re pussies like that). We never intended to become regulars or anything and I never really thought that you could become a regular in a restaurant unless you were really trying to be chummy with the waitstaff and make a general effort of some sort to be recognizable and conspicuous (read: vaguely pathetic). But no…we were just our cool pleasant selves and somehow we’ve become the nameless best friends of everyone at the restaurant.
And it’s embarrassing as fuck.
It didn’t start out humiliating or anything (it was kind of flattering at first), but now it’s to the point where the waitresses walk up to the table and already know my drink order and then they guess my dinner order and then they run over and say “Time for some bread pudding?” as soon as I set my napkin on the table. And maybe it’s that it calls to attention the fact that I fall so easily into patterns (I’m not boring, for the record; I’m just either obsessive or in need of comfort when it comes to food and this leads to me having extremely predictable eating patterns) or maybe it’s the implication that we don’t know of better restaurants in this town (of which, I’m sure, there are many), but it’s really become a problem for us. We still want to go there just as often (hey, they have my favorite drink in town…they put oranges and cherries in it!…and yes, I like lame girly drinks even though the rest of me is spectacular and awesome, I promise) but we always find ourselves feeling like we shouldn’t.
And sure, there are definitely perks. We always get treated the best and they give me happy hour prices on my favorite drink even though my drink isn’t supposed to get the happy hour mark-down (it’s criminally underpriced, as is) and this one waitress (who is like the best waitress in the world incidentally) compliments us incessantly (and though we pretend to hate compliments, as all cool people do, we stretch and purr and smile our lazy drunken smiles whenever it happens). But still…it’s just kind of uncomfortable when you get that close to people you only have a connection with through food.
It’s like this guy that works at the Panera Bread by my job. We go to lunch there like once a week as well, mainly because of the major convenience factor (I’m fuckin’ lazy folks…and they have soup! And apples! I love soup and apples!), but there’s this guy there that’s like obsessed with us. He remembered Eric’s name after the first time of taking our order (like we’re in there two weeks later and he waits on us and is like “The name for the order is Eric, correct?” all smooth and quick like and we were like “Hmm? Uh…yeah, I guess”). And he always knows our ordering patterns and what we usually want and yes, he always knows the name…and it’s sort of weird. He seems like a stand up fellow and all, (seriously, who remembers names like that? I hope he’s at least the manager; dude should be making millions somewhere with talents like that…and again, I’m completely serious. Skills like that are terribly unappreciated these days), but it’s still kind of bizarre when we come in the door and he lights up like a freakin’ light bulb and we later glance up from our post-lunch cookies and see him grinning at us from across the restaurant (hey, it happens). Oh and did I mention his name is the same as a famous playwright? I won’t say who, because I’m noble and have integrity and shit (hella integrity, so you know), but it’s pretty awesome. I sort of love the fellow just for that.
Anyway, I don’t really know what all of that leads up to. Eric says we’re really recognizable as a couple because we don’t look at all alike (so we’re “That blonde girl and bearded guy” to everyone). And we are super nice (I’m the nicest secretly snarky girl you’ll ever meet) and we tip super well and we’re really empathatic and chill and all. But personally? I think everyone in Denver’s service industry just wants to have sex with us.
Which, hey, I’m kind of a slut (but shh, don’t tell anyone. It’s supposed to only be a hinted about undercurrent that I hide with my supposed innocence and long blonde locks). I can totally see where they’re coming from.
Pointless inaugural blog entry. Hell yeah!
I'm a writer, music freak, pop culture critic-at-large, natural born lover, and professional crayon drawer.
