I’ve started a new phrase and I’m calling on you, blog readers, to help it catch on.
Here is an explanation of its origination:
Once a year and only once a year, Frank and I go to a fancy restaurant. It started last year when we went to III Forks for restaurant week. It’s a week in August where frugal folks like us can enjoy the good life (a meal with three courses) for a mere $35 a person. Sure, that’s how much we usually spend on the entire bill at a restaurant but this time we get a lot more food and a little bit goes to charity.
Of course another reason we used to avoid fancy restaurants is because they don’t serve sandwiches. And I heard a rumor that they frown upon customers turning filet mignon into BBQ between bread.
But last year when we went to III Forks it was heavenly. And my favorite part? The salad! As soon as the meal was over I started feeling PMD (Post Meal Depression). I said to Frank, “We have to come back here…maybe for a special occasion?” He said, “We will! For restaurant week next year!”
So this year we made reservations again but this time at a different restaurant—Chamberlain’s Steak House. We were joined by Courtney and John (who always split their meal and make us feel like oinkers) and Monica (who was in town from San Antonio).
Courtney and John were going to pick up Monica from the airport and meet us there. When Frank and I were walking up to the restaurant Courtney called and said, “We’re stuck behind the longest train ever!” They were going to be about 15-20 minutes late. I told the hostess when we walked in, “We’re a party of five but three of us are caught behind a train.” She was very understanding.
Then this high school girl came bounding in, all dressed up. “We’re a party of twelve but I just came in because I have to pee really bad!” The hostess kindly pointed her in the direction of the restrooms. Then her flurry of high school buddies came in and sat at a huge table.
Between our train explanation and the high school girl’s tiny bladder, I told Frank that the hostesses were probably saying, “This is so restaurant week.”
So that’s my new phrase for when things are low-class, ghetto or just plain bad manners. Like when I used Monica’s bread plate instead of my own she said, “Elsa, you’re so restaurant week.”
And later that weekend when John jumped in the pool with all his clothes on, I said, “He is so restaurant week.”
And just today, when Cul de Sac Carrie and I were on our morning walk and I saw cigarette butts in the alley I said, “These people are so restaurant week!”
It’s really versatile—kinda like dundies.
John Mark Karr and his fake confession? Totally restaurant week.
Sandra Oh’s be-jeweled bod at the Emmy’s? Very restaurant week.
People leaving their carts in the parking lot of the grocery store? Major restaurant week!
See? As long as we keep the saying alive, it can be restaurant week all year long.