From San Pellegrino to the Pickin' Parlor

Beaucoup Caliente.So on Friday night, TG and I went out on a date to celebrate the thirty-first anniversary of our wedding, which was actually June sixteenth. 

It was sort of a two-chapter date just like it was a two-chapter anniversary.

Chapter One involved a dinner reservation at a restaurant where we last ate on our thirtieth anniversary, a year and two days ago. 

A tad pricey but the experience is worth it to mark special occasions, we think.

First thing after they seat you, which takes place with great decorum, one of your waiters (there ends up being several and clearly they are schooled in The Fine Art Of Swarming) zeroes in on your beverage order.

Please Leave Us Cold

At this particular place I always fall for the suggestion of Pellegrino. I do like me a glass of ice-cold Pellegrino now and then.

The little guy cruising around with the tray of San Pellegrino and Panna Mineral Water walks slowly, hunched over slightly, as though he's carrying a load of Heavy Water up the Rhine for some diabolic warmongering purpose.

Water with personality.But he expertly fills my glass with Pellegrino and leaves the bottle. Good man.

TG requests an Arnold Palmer -- his hooch of choice in recent days -- and the waiter does not flinch as he sees the size of his gratuity diminish with the stark absence of an alcohol order. 

We do not imbibe! Sorry, Charlie.

The ArPa materializes on our table within moments and there don't appear to be any hard feelings. Soon TG is sipping away with a contented sigh. 

Then he remembers he left my anniversary card in the car, which got valet parked.

He jumps up and hustles out before I can make a scene.

Did You Check The Fridge?

Across the room a man WEARING A BASEBALL CAP indoors at a fancy-schmancy restaurant has been seated and progressed to the drink-ordering stage. He asks for lemonade loudly enough that I can eavesdrop without so much as trying.

I go bananas.He is told by the waiter that they don't have lemonade.

I look down at TG's glass. Then what exactly IS that pale yellow substance mingling with his sweet tea? 

TG's back by then and I tell him what the waiter told the etiquette-challenged diner five tables away. TG sips his Arnold Palmer.  

"They do too have lemonade," he says.

Well Done, Good And Faithful Servant

I take a few pictures like a tourist (For you! All for you!) and we order our dinner. The restaurant is filling up.

Presently we are dining on crisp salads and fork-tender filets and sauteed mushrooms and sweet potato casserole and soft-baked bread with real butter. 

Over the bridge to W.C.When it's time for dessert I dither over whether to order my usual -- creme brulee -- or to branch out. I end up going for the caramelized banana cream pie -- with French press coffee.

The banana cream pie is a tart shell with CREAMY stuff inside and imbricated banana discs on top which have been blow-torched to a crunchy brown. Pretty good but not as good as creme brulee with fresh berries in season.

The coffee is spectacular.

Jam, y'all.Richard, our main waiter, tells us he and his wife celebrated their third anniversary this week, the day before ours. We've been married ten times longer. 

He seems like a nice guy. I hope they make it.

Moving Right Along

For Chapter Two we hail our chariot from the valet boys and head across the river into West Columbia, the border of which is now marked, I notice, with a sign featuring a cascading fountain.

Which is interesting since West Columbia is not exactly Beverly Hills. But whatever.

Next stop, Bill's Pickin' Parlor.

This is where bluegrass musicians jam every Friday night in a locale so dilapidated, it makes the Grand Ole Opry look like the Taj Mahal on top of Buckingham Palace joined at the hip with Versailles.

Bill Wells: local legend.It has seen better days, but none more devoted to pickin' and singin'.

Bill Wells, the boss man, presides over jam night at the pickin' parlor as he has for a quarter century, tapping his foot on the sidelines as musicians traipse onto the stage and render tunes like Lily's White Lies with total bluegrass abandon.

We greet some old friends and make a few new ones. I want to go home but not before a stop at the concession stand.

I know! I know! I have enjoyed a seven-dollar bottle of Pellegrino, a thirty-five dollar steak, a nine-dollar dessert, and a five-dollar pot of coffee. What more could I possibly want? Or fit in?

Well, since you're so all-fired inquisitive, I'll tell you: a dollar-fifty bottle of Blenheim HOT Ginger Ale.

It Don't Mean A Thing If It Ain't Got That Sting

TG forks over the two bucks and I wait for my Blenheim's and fifty cents change. The girl goes to knock the cap off the bottle but I tell her not to; I want to savor it in the privacy of my home.

Open-air jammers.Later, in my favorite chair, having changed into something comfortable, I sip the most daring drink I'm likely to hazard in the foreseeable future.

This ginger ale goes down -- as the name says -- HOT. I think they fix it as normal, then give it a triple-shot of citric acid. The result would remove tooth enamel if not gum tissue. 

Your tongue might even lose some volume if you got sassy and held onto a mouthful a beat too long.

So you face your fears and swallow.

Let The Flames Begin

And it's like you ingested thirty-eleven lit matches that are scorching a trail from your throat to the floor of your belly, where they ignite a little eternal torch.

Arson of the innards. Yum.

A well-worn path of egress.Repeat till you feel the need to suck on the business end of a fire extinguisher.

If they dumped a few million gallons of Blenheim's into the Gulf of Mexico, that oil would burn off quicker'n a firefly's wink. Obama's presidency could possibly be saved.

It might even solve our illegal alien problem. You never know.

Comments

[Anvilcloud]

What a fine celebration of 31 years. Congratulations.

[Donna M.]

Congratulations on surviving and thriving a long marriage! Sounds like a great night, and I loved every word morsel of your description!

[Debbie]

Now that's the kind of evening out I enjoy, but none of us do it often enough. Love the pictures. Doesn't you hubby complain about you taking the camera everywhere and taking pictures of everything? Some men would, but sweet men like your hubby and my hubby don't do that.

You deserved the great evening, and my mouth is wondering about the taste of HOT gnger ale.

[Jennifer]

@ Anvilcloud ... we do know how to celebrate! And so much TO celebrate! Thanks.

@ Donna M. ... "surviving" ... great word! LOL sometimes you just tie a knot and hang on. Thanks for the compliment! I guess it's obvious I'm a chowhound.

@ Debbie ... He knows where I go, that camera goes! LOL you know how it is. I feel conspicuous sometimes, snapping away no matter where I happen to be, but how else do we chronicle life's events? Our men are indeed sweet to put up with us.