Last night Sandy and I went out for dinner at The Keg to celebrate our 14th wedding anniversary. (Some of you in the US may be familiar with The Keg, for anyone else who isn't it's a steakhouse restaurant). Here’s our evening…
Since we're without reservations there's a twenty to thirty minute wait, which we happily spend on the outdoor patio. We're seated in front of a big glass wall with a cascading water feature, which obscures the busy road behind it. Nice touch. I'm driving tonight and don't plan to drink until dinner so I ask for a glass of ice water. Sandy orders a Miami Haze (Polar Ice vodka, peach schnapps, mango, orange and pineapple juice with a splash of cranberry cocktail), which she thoroughly enjoys. She seems somewhat charmed by the cuteness of our blonde server but I, of course, am oblivious to it all. (at least for the purposes of this post). During the conversation I quickly calculate that at twenty years old our talkative waitress would have been one when Sandy and I first met. At this moment I hate math more than ever.
After a short time our table is called. Being of typically modern, contemporary decor the restaurant is dimly lit. We take our seats and as we peruse the menu I ask our server for some candles. Not so much to set the stage for romance as to cast some light, since neither of us have our reading glasses and can barely read the menu. Kill me now.
A basket of piping hot sourdough bread with churned butter is brought to our table. Sandy orders an Argentinian malbec to drink paired with a prime rib steak, twice-baked potatoes and sauteed mushrooms. I'm having an Oscar sirloin (topped with shrimp, scallops and asparagus tips in a Bernaise sauce) with a side of rice pilaf and Rosemont Estates shiraz to wash it down. God I love Australian reds.
We chat as we wait for dinner. Sandy looks great, this girl knows how to dress. Our meal arrives and it's delicious, they never disappoint at this restaurant. I’m warned that the horseradish has a potent kick but decide to attack it anyway, and it fights back. My sinuses are flooded with a prickly sensation that rattles around in my brain before escaping out my ears; it’s the culinary equivalent of Steve Carell in The Forty-Year-Old Virgin getting his chest waxed. With each bite I utter a stream of silent expletives, until seconds later the flavour settles upon my palette. It’s a deliciously twisted game.
Dessert time. Sandy’s weapon of choice is a B-52 coffee with a bowl of French Vanilla ice cream. Quite decadent. I order warm apple crumble topped with vanilla ice cream and a tea. We end dinner with a toast of complimentary champagne before heading home, where we have an enthusiastic romp between the sheets before drifting blissfully off to sleep.
(Actually there's no romping, we're too stuffed to do anything. With heads on our pillows, the night ends with whispers of days to come, each bringing us closer than the last. What more could one ask for?)
PS: For the benefit of some of you who are wondering, here's what Sandy wore. I love this outfit: