One of the other boards I frequent asked:

Do you go to high-end restaurants? Because some people feel really uncomfortable there.

I though about it and had to answer: As long as someone else is paying for it. Mostly higher-end steakhouses here in Houston (Pappas Brothers, State Grille), Chef G's (before it closed), Vargo's - either through work (client entertainment) or dates on expense accounts. I enjoy them.

But then I remembered (with mild mortification) my first dining experience at a high end restaurant. My first boss, for some reason that I can't recall, took me out for lunch to Spindletop. Twenty-plus years ago, it was this totally frou-frou place (French menu with no English translations; hell, my menu didn't even have the prices listed - I mean, this was seriously old-school) and being that I was 18, and determined to demonstrate my nonexistent sophistication, asked questions of no one, and chose the one item on the list that had any familiarity - steak tartare. Keep in mind, I don't particularly like steak and therefore am a steak heathen. I want my cow dead and chewy, okay? Shoe leather can be amazingly tasty. Cook it well done, and then cook it some more. Then sear the edges. But knowing that people are occassionally disturbed at this, I told the waiter (in a laughing, Audrey Hepburn manner) that I would stick with usual, steak tartare, and I would have it medium well done. My boss and the waiter chuckled along with my clever little joke, and my boss ordered the same. I sat back, pleased with myself. My boss (who was under the impression I had been here before, mainly because I lied to him) expressed how impressed he was with my choice, saying that he liked that I wasn't tied to the traditional. I was puffed up with pride. And then the waiter, with a flourish, placed this pile of ground up raw meat in front of me. And smiles. My boss says, "someone about the way chef (something French that I wasn't actually listening to because I had a frickin' plate full of raw meat in front of me that someone apparently expected me to eat) did the fine grind instead of thin slices blah, blah, blah.

I swear I regressed to approximately age 7. I poked it. I hid some under the parsley. I sniffed it suspiciously. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to bring the fork to my mouth. I subdivided it into microscopic particles on chunks of bread and attempted to place it in my mouth. I realized my boss was watching me in open-mouthed amazement. Surrendering all claims to sophistication, I wailed, "Ewwwwwwwwwwwww, I can't eat this! It's beyond gross! Pfui!" He fell out of his chair laughing at my butt. He made the waiter (who was also laughing) take it back and fry it up. Wasn't bad that way.