My parents wanted to take me for a birthday dinner/meet & secretly judge my boyfriend. They suggested The Melting Pot, which is where you go if you live in the suburbs and want to eat at a “nice” restaurant. My parents talked me into going by telling me there were all kinds of different cheeses there. Um, sold. What ensued was one of the weirdest dining experiences of my life. A recap:
foursquare (yeah, I still check-in.sometimes they give you a discount!) congratulated me on my first check-in at a “Swiss restaurant”. I guess “congratulations on your first check-in at a vaguely swiss-themed chain restaurant” is too long to fit on most mobile screens.
The waitress hurried out and began preparing the cheese fondue at our table. She was clearly in a frenzy. “Sorry,” she said, “They just fired half the staff. There was a huge cheese scandal…”
Cheese scandal?! The only thing I love as much as cheese is a good scandal. My ears perked up immediately.
“Tell me more!”
“Well, half the staff was caught stealing 5 gallons of cheese. Apparently it was for some party they were having.”
I wanted so badly to be invited to the Cheese Party. 5 gallons! I imagined the delicious spread of snacks they would have there. Or maybe they would just put all of the cheese into a giant bucket and have a free for all. Or maybe a cheese keg! Or…
Back to the meal.
After the first course was over, a very frail looking boy came to set up the tabletop cooking device for the next portion of the meal.He had large, sad eyes and appeared somewhat frightened as he hoisted the heavy metal pot onto the table.
“Do people get hurt here a lot?” I asked him. (at that point I was drunk on cheese and behaving inappropriately.)
“Yes.” He said gravely. With that he turned and walked away.
According to the menu, The Melting Pot is a good place to go for a romantic dinner. Because really, what is more romantic than plates of raw meat that you get to spear and cook in boiling liquid.
After the meat course, I was feeling sick (I’m usually a vegetarian). I excused myself to go to the bathroom, which is located right next to the kitchen. As I was leaving I ran into the waitress, who was holding a birthday balloon. I had already told her AND my parents that there was to be absolutely no singing or birthday fanfare, and ESPECIALLY no balloons. I detest birthday fanfare, unless it comes in the form of expensive gifts. Anyway, this balloon was highly suspect. I had to confront her.
“I will hide in the bathroom until you get rid of that thing. I will wait in there until the restaurant closes. Don’t test me.”
“This isn’t for you.” she promised me.
Seeing as I had just met her, I hadn’t decided if I could trust her yet, so I took an alternate route back to my table, discreetly following her to ensure that the balloon found its way to a table that was not my own.
By the dessert course, I was almost falling asleep. It took about 5 cups of coffee to get me back to a conscious state. The caffeine kicked in, and I forced myself to eat some chocolate covered cheesecake to be polite.
At the end of the meal they brought out fancy gold-plated receptacles for patrons to vomit in. (Not true.)
When I went to sleep that night, I was haunted by nightmares. I was in a Meat Prison, and the only way to get out was to eat 20 platefuls of steak tartare.
I can’t talk about meat anymore without wanting to vomit, so now is the perfect time to announce that I will be interviewing Patrick of the (almost, sort of) famous blog Awkward Eldon for my next post! Patrick will be answering intense questions about his personal life. I have not cleared any of this with him.