Thursday, July 17, 2008

It feels like I could live for another century, and I wish these good vibes sprung from a healthy diet, regular exercise, and ample sleep. The real secret to longevity, though, is preservatives and lots of butter. I’ve been hitting the restaurants at an alarming frequency these past few weeks, which really did a number on my knuckles until I decided to actually walk into a few of these places and eat.

Terrible wordplay, I know, and I blame it on the large quantities of MSG. Right now, in fact, my vision is blurred from the increased sodium intake, even as the joints in my mouse hand–the last thing to go, of course–permanently lock into vestigial formation. Soon, in mere seconds, I will need to finish this post by rolling my head back and forth on my keyboard and hoping my nose will strike the correct letters.

During one of my gelatto-induced hazes, it occurred to me the entire restaurant experience, which by definition precludes Burger King and Golden Corral, hearkens to an earlier, more brutish time, when lords and ladies burdened themselves with sitting and being served. I understand paying for someone to prepare the entrée, because there is skill and artistry in cooking. Once the dish is ready, however, I’m perfectly content walking my ass over and collecting it and, heaven forbid, grabbing a pitcher and refilling my own drink from time to time.

Instead, we have this antiquated ritual where guests remain virtually sedentary, turning only to confirm or deny queries from eager staff. Isn’t there a middle ground that isn’t shaped like a Sizzler? I suppose fine dining is a fun experience once in a while, but at a certain point it feels like I need to choose a path: revert back to my simpler oatmeal-consuming existence, or travel further down the road and demand, wench, you fetch me some vittles for the coin I shall toss into yon satchel.