Chasing Date Night

After eleven years, two kids, and one too many Saturday night reruns of Law and Order, it had come to this: Date Night. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s supposed to make married folk better, stronger, more romantic. Chasing that illusion, my husband wore cologne and I painted my eyes like an Arabian princess.

I planned spontaneity. Working my artificially full lashes, I lured my husband away from familiar platters of cow-and-tater with a wink and a promise. We drove down the highway. Away from PTA, soccer, and ballet. Away from the backyard BBQs of our tidy subdivision. I tasted youth. It tasted a lot like lip-gloss.

On a trendy street in the city, a swanky bistro beckoned. In blue neon, a sultry ‘Jazz’ lit up the window. Even better: convenient parking.

Inside, a glance at the menu confirmed our choice. Steamed, braised, pan-seared, lightly tossed in cream. . . We’d eaten this kind of food before kids; we’d do it again.

As we waited for our table, I admired our reflections behind the bartender. We were hot. The entire restaurant was populated with Beautiful People: print-shirt wearing guys in Buddy Holly spectacles and girls as blonde and groomed as an heiress’s Chihuahua. My abundance of shimmering shadow and black eyeliner elevated me to their league.

The hostess led us past groups of the Beautiful People, sparkling over tiny bowls of pasta, to a small stairway. Ooh, what was this? A lower level? Not only had we found the hippest little spot in town, we were now being shown into its inner sanctum, the special place for the few, the worthy, the dare-I-say ultrachic. John and I exchanged a look — Date Night rocked.

The grotto grooved a different vibe. Retro, with booths, hoola-dancer lamps, and pop-art. Very Bradys-go-to-Vegas.

“Good choice, gorgeous,” my husband said after we ordered. He still had the smooth talk, but as I waited an unreasonable interval for my Chardonnay, I missed the candlelight upstairs and wondered how soon all the eye paint would settle into my not-so-fine lines. I tried to pretend the wine did not taste like yesterday’s green tea. The soup would be better — Cream of Asparagus and Crab could be nothing less than divine.

Still, something was not quite right.

“Do you notice anything about the people down here?” I said.

“No,” he lied. But the patrons around us, though still attractive, sported thicker waists and thinner hair.

“I think this is the Old People section,” I whispered.

“Nah.”

Then the food arrived. As I forced myself through the cold and starchy glop of soup, springs dug into my soft, motherly rear and I felt deceived. By the time I had suffered through my soggy salad, Date Night had evaporated like a mirage. I poked at my mediocre shrimp. Not having spent all that time on eye make-up, my husband was less vexed.

“This place might not last long,” he said in his annoying diplomatic manner.

“It’s crap,” I said. The whole place had started to look like a yard sale that got plowed over by a wood paneled station wagon. This basement sucked.

Just then, a Cowboy and his Girl moseyed into the booth behind us. Neither Old nor Beautiful, and worlds away from cool, the Cowboy made it perfectly clear. We all had been banished. Not
to be seen by the real clientele. Hidden away like a cousin with Herpes at the church picnic.

And me with my best mascara.

Though tempted, I knew even the most articulate complaints would not earn me a place upstairs. But such a severe humiliation required resolution. A near-lethal dose of chocolate would do.

We made it to the steakhouse half an hour before closing. A friendly waitress promptly served us a fudgy cake-frosting-sauce concoction, which delivered more than it promised. As our cheeks blushed under the light of a Budweiser sign, we found a comfort and satisfaction that had eluded us all evening.

So maybe next time we ought to start at the steakhouse? No way. After all, dating’s all about the chase.