literature

Dinner

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Literature Text

My mother and I went to dinner the other day.

The first restaurant we visited, a mildly fancy and rather successful business, was packed to the gills, eve on a Tuesday night. As we walked determinedly up the well-worn steps and through the porch, it was difficult not to notice the collection of patrons sitting outside, sipping wine and idly chatting as they waited to get a seat. At that point, we probably should have just left, but we wasted an extra couple minutes standing in a line to have the hostess tell us what we already knew: a table would be available in, oh, say, twenty-five to thirty minutes. Somewhat aghast, we quickly declined to be put in the list and instead returned to our car, where my mother announced she had a backup plan.

In a couple of minutes, we came upon a picturesque stretch of road, curving slightly away from the adjacent river. There was the backup plan: a small, quaint establishment, aging only slightly better than its owner. The latter visited us during our meal, making his rounds and inquiring as to the quality of experience his customers were enjoying. He seemed to be fragile enough, despite looking to be only in his mid to late sixties, that no one would have dared say anything except that they were having a lovely meal, thank you.

As we walked in, a woman who was either the hostess, a waitress, or both came and indicated an area of unused tables where we were to seat ourselves. My mother chose us a table by the window in hopes of getting a good view of the river. We sat down and were met shortly by our waitress, a somewhat homely but kind looking woman; she seemed like a person one would expect to find in an establishment such as the one we were in. She made some pleasant but meaningless small talk as a I struggled to choose an item from the laminated menu I held.

Once we had both ordered, we were brought our drinks (oddly opaque lemonade, obviously made from some neon powder) and a small, but full, loaf of bread complete with cutting board and bread knife. It was then that I began to feel the ambiance of the place. It felt too stereotypical, too general. It felt like a place some solitary old woman might come for breakfast each day, until one day someone felt that there was something off and wondered where the hell Doris was, only to have their suspicions confirmed by a belated obituary in the local paper. A kind of place that would simply shut down at the death of its founder rather than change hands. The piano music playing over the speaker system simply worsened the situation, creating an air of fictitiousness. It would undoubtedly be the music that would play as a camera panned out from the window, moving quickly away from a heartwarming scene at the end of an underfunded film. The feeling ate away at me, and I ate away at my dessert. I drowned it with idle conversation, the chef drowned my key lime pie in whipped cream.

I had a lovely evening, and yet was more than happy to get the hell out of there.
Went to dinner with my mother and got a weird experience in return.
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