The china and crystal clinked harmoniously. The restaurant was filled to capacity. I was seated at the mahogany bar lined with linen napkins and distinguished looking old men. I placed my napkin in my lap and pulled out "The Picture of Dorian Grey." Books make a most suitable lunch date. There is something inherently refined about dining in an art museum. I was dining in the Metropolitan Museum of Art no less. I ordered a desperately needed cup of peppermint tea to revive myself. Seeing the entirety of the MET in one day is no small feat. I ordered a significantly over priced, though ridiculously delicious as it turned out, salad and pursued Dorian Grey as I waited for it to arrive. I stole a few glances back at central park and breathed in the minty fragrance of my tea. Yes, THIS was the life. The older couple beside me began to shuffle around, preparing to go. They looked so sophisticated, dressed as if going to a much finer restaurant than the one we were in. His British accent added to the effect.
The waiter placed my roll on the bar in front of me, with butter. Lovely butter. I cut the role in half and began to butter it.Three swipes of the knife in I lost control of the roll and it fell to the ground. Sadly, I was seated in pub chair that, at the moment, appeared significant higher than your run-of-the-mill bar stool. I climbed my way down to locate the rogue roll. I couldn't find it. The roll had literally disappeared. "It's of no consequence" I thought to myself. "I'll just sit down and pretend it didn't happen, I'm sure no one noticed anyway." At that moment, a British voice from behind said "I believe its rolled under the counter." Well, what choice did I have at the point but to get down on my hands and knees and dig the buttered roll out from under the counter. My British friend let out a chuckle of triumph, paid his bill and departed. I was left with half a dirty roll and sting of confirming to the English,once again,that American don't belong in fine dining establishments.
Alas. FAIL.
