|It's all about happy endings, right?|
One of my tables was occupied by a particularly attractive couple who came into the dining room late, already well-lubricated and radiating hostility to each other. I was terrified that someone might get hit with the wine bottle, including me.
As it turned out, they didn't stick around long enough for me to even get to the point of opening the trashy wine. There was a brief exchange of accusations -- he supposedly "slept around"; she was, he insisted, a "lousy lay" -- and they agreed, quite reasonably, to just break up and go home. He sullenly paid the bill -- without a tip for me -- but left behind the box of Godiva chocolates he had brought her.
Oh, yes, I ate most of them before the same couple returned to the restaurant, now, inexplicably, deeply in love once again. The story had a happy ending.
Valentine's night, one of the most intense restaurant nights of the year, should always conclude with a happy ending. I spent most of my adult life working on February 14, so I never had the opportunity to actually experience the stories I've heard about over the years: diamond rings dropped into glasses of champagne -- good champagne -- or cleverly secreted in a fortune cookie with a written marriage proposal instead of a "fortune."
So this is a golden opportunity for you, Fat City readers, to share your Valentine's-night memories -- the heartwarming and the horrible -- right here in the comments section. The best comment comes with a prize: You and I get to split a Whitman's Sampler. (I get the caramels, OK?)