Fine Dining

We tried a new restaurant in town.  It looked very attractive from the outside, and even more so on the inside.  White linen tablecloths and napkins folded in tidy shapes, dark panelled walls and enough lighting for you to read the menu without squinting.  A fairly new place, one we had not noticed before on our visits to this street, this restaurant was described in elegant script lettering on the marquee as serving Persian cuisine.

The hostess was tall and elegantly dressed, fortyish, with brindled blond hair ('streaky' I suppose would be the term commonly used) tied back in an elegant bun; probably of Iranian heritage (though 'Persian' would be the preferred designation these days, as on the marquee outside).  The menus were nicely bound in leather, and the prices of the items offered would likely be classified in most newspapers' restaurant reviews as $$$.  There was a respectable wine list, the waiters and busboys wore dark slacks, white shirts and bow ties, the noise level was low, and the whole ensemble augured a fine dining experience.

A complimentary plate of cheese, walnuts, and herbs appeared, along with squares of unleavened bread, a dish of butter, and ice water in stem glasses.  The menu gave the Persian names of each dish, with a clear description of what it was.

And then it happened.  The hostess returned to our table after we had studied the menu for some minutes.  She said: "So, have you guys decided?"  [Italics mine.]

The anticipation of a fine dining experience vanished in a trice.