Thanks to J and M for an amazing evening's dinner at Harvest. When food is so good that it makes you cry, now that's a meal.
But to my point: My Mum is right. No one dresses for dinner anymore. I mean, I'm sorry, but if the menu features "hand dug Macomber turnips" then damnit, you ought to be dressing up. There is always a place to wear your Little Black Dress.
Care for the staff's work as much as they are caring for you: Put on something nice. Make it an event.
Now granted, I could extrapolate this to include MC's wonton soup, which while not hand-dug, is so incredibly good that it might be made from the pure and virginal blood of innocent little babies and I'd beg for more.
But what do I usually wear on Sunday night to MCs? Frumpy clothes.
Does that mean that I should be wearing my brand-spanking new, silk charmeuse LBD for egg rolls?
I hate when I back myself into a logical bind.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment