Dad made reservations at the nicest restaurant in our medium sized southern city. That would be the place in the picture above. Ain't it purty? It shore was fancy on the inside, too, boy howdy.
Anyway, he insisted that we all dress up and look nice. That meant I had to wear heels, which I did. I do love my mother. We were running a little bit late on the way there, and I could tell Dad was stressed because he was mad at me for not endangering his family's life by turning into oncoming traffic so we could get moving. He sighed deeply at every traffic light. But thanks to the ingenuity of my friend, Kristi, who threw Mapquest directions at me, grabbed my baby, and shoved me back out the door as I shouted babysitting instructions at her, we made it there right on time for the reservation.
Mom was treated like a queen, and the food was fit for royalty. She got a menu signed by the chef, wishing her a very happy birthday. Well, well.
This is the room we ate in. We had the table by the window. I think I've decided that you can tell a truly upscale restaurant by the level of the music playing in the background. If it's really soft and you can hear yourself talking to others and the tinkle of your crystal, you know you're in a really nice place.
Dad was buying, so I had the best steak ever. And vegetable risotto. And the best cooked carrots I've ever had in my life. They didn't even taste like cooked carrots. I usually hate cooked carrots. These were like orange sticks of ambrosia.
"We're just here guarding the lady. No, we can't smile for the camera. We're on duty." Suits. Hmph.