Diner at Palatchi's

Diner at Palatchi's

There are other places to eat at in our small metropolis; Chez Brucie is only one. I showed up there one quiet evening with a statuesque lady whose long thoroughbred legs and store bought boobs could take her just about anyplace she might wish to go. I had snaked the dame away from my good friend Joey who I had thought was looking the other way. The joint was not a bad place for a French restaurant. Valet parking was free, and the maitre'd had promptly met us at the door, bowed from the ankles and guided us to the lady's preferred table located next to the piano bar. The lady held forth in conversation with the waiter, sent a message to the chef that she looked forward to enjoying one of the man's great creations, and asked that the wine steward be sent over to assist in the selection of one of the establishments finer offerings. The wine she preferred was presented with the required flare by the dumb waiter and a suitable offering was made to guarantee that the music from the piano bar provided the proper balance of piano and cello the dame preferred.

The crisp salad was presented on cold plates and the entree had been presented with the chef's assurance that the lady would find the offering, something mixed with secret herbs and spices that had been gently sauteed in a wine sauce and presented en flambe a way that almost took my eyebrows off. The chef had described it as a unique culinary experience, whatever the hell that meant. An hour later, after leaving a proper gratuity, I sent the dame home in a taxi, gave her up for Lent and went off in search of my ex friend Joey who was probably laughing his ace off. The guy had managed the unscrupulous when he had dumped the ditsy broad on me, his one good and trusted friend,