My wife and I make okay money in a middle class area, but, due to a combination of good luck, and contrived to circumstances, we recently got to watch a college football game in the stadium’s super executive corporate sponsor level suite. It was awesome. Open bar, amazing catered food, and people networking all around me who are clearly in the c-suite of their respective companies. I had a list of crazy things I was going to say if someone asked me what I did, but it never came up.
Years ago my dad took me with him to a business trip in downtown LA. He finished his meeting and we wanted some dinner so started looking around for somewhere to eat. It was in the financial district though, and by 5 or 6 every fast food place around was already closed (which is still weird to me). We were about to give up and go back to our hotel and just get room service until we saw a plain ass sign pointing down an alley that just said “steakhouse.” So we followed it into the alley, down some stairs into a sketchy looking basement door that led us into the fanciest fucking restaurant I have ever been in.
Shit was straight out of a movie. The waiters had tuxedos. Everything was finished in nice looking wood, silver or gold. They had an actual maitre d! We immediately felt under dressed and had to ask if there was a dress code.
Well? Did you get food? Was it any good? Did they call you a peasant and tell you to buzz off?
They didn’t have a dress code, so we ate there. Pretty decent steakhouse; prices were a bit higher than, like, a Texas Roadhouse, but not as high as an Outback. I remember the baked potato was fucking enormous and they were all you could eat. But you probably wouldn’t even finish 1 because it was fuckin’ gigantic.
I wish I knew its name. They didn’t have a name on the menu, anywhere inside or on the outside. Literally the only thing even marking it as a restaurant was the little sign pointing into the alley that just said “steakhouse.” It’s like a sweet little secret.