It's What's for Dinner

I'm finally home for the day. I just finished eating the healthiest thing I could find on the menu -- a baked slab of salmon on a big bed of spinach, accompanied by red onions and soft cheese (that I can only assume was of the goat variety). There was a bacon vinaigrette dressing, but I ordered it on the side so I could sparingly use it to moisten the overcooked fish.

I had met my family for dinner at one of the large chain places I've grown to dislike.  For the record, I never had a taste for these commercialized restaurants.  I don't trust what most places pass off as acceptable replacements for wholesome food.  However, my other half does not cook and eventually someone (me) needs a break.  Jesus, he doesn't even grill.  What man doesn't grill? Isn't that some rite of passage?  It seems so strange to me.

Our Friday and sometimes Saturday evenings are my nights off and his night to "cook." His version of cooking is to find a coupon for a local joint, wait until after the early bird diners have left, and find the most convenient place for a family dinner. This inevitably becomes the weekend drill where we toss around the names of big-named, low price, get-a-heap-for-your-dollar places that one could see at every exit on their way from here to the Georgia line--places like Olive Garden, Smoky Bones, Longhorn, Outback, Cracker Barrel, you get the picture.

Actually, a new place opened up near my yoga studio.  It's not one of the main chains, but it is similar in this americanized restaurant conceptual ideal.  When it comes to this "ideal" there are a few consistent standards:
- It's REALLY bright!!!!
- There must be at least one television.
- The music is loud enough that the person you're dining with has to raise their voice to an audible level.
-The furniture is minimalist and so is the decor.
 There are other common denominators, but for the purposes of this observation, I'm just naming a few.

What strikes me is just how impersonal these restaurants feel and moreover, how overloaded my senses are when I walk through the door. And forget trying to have a conversation.  My eyes are drawn away from my dining compadre and straight to the television.  I have to yell over the music.  I'm forced to belly up to some industrial-looking table, on a wobbly brushed steel barstool, waiting for terribly bland or over-salted food.  The natural light is typically shafted for some artificial spots that light my face in such a terrible fashion (i.e. you can clearly see I've broken my nose twice by way of beam of the overhead bulb).  Who looks good being lit from straight above?  

I want dark spaces with ambiance.  I want food that isn't cookie cutter or bought in hopes that it can pass for edible.  I want soft music playing and I want to speak at a normal volume. I hear these places exist.  I bet they don't have coupons or discounts or early bird specials. If you take me, I promise not to order the most expensive thing on the menu.  I'm not that kind of girl.