“You cannot go Tuesday, but you can go Monday, Wednesday and Thursday to Friday Saturday Sunday. We chose Thursday, and dined at this charming little spot located at 261 S. 21st Street.”
So opens my first published article in the spring of my senior year of high school.
It was a restaurant review in my high school newspaper, The Earthquake, that I co-wrote with my friend Marianne, with whom I am still close. She became a painter and I, a writer but I remember that lead insisting itself on both of us.
It’s hilarious to read, now, forty years later.
For our hubris:
“We were warmly welcomed by a young hostess and promptly seated at a table adorned with fresh flowers.”
A young hostess? Really? We were 17 or 18 at the time.
For our earnestness:
“We immediately noticed that the walls and ceiling were draped with billowing Indian fabrics. The menu was cleverly situated up high on a blackboard which was nestled among plants. Dim lighting and soft jazz music added to the cozy ambience of the restaurant.”
And our innocence:
After splitting a mocha walnut torte – dubbing it a “sublime delicacy” – we concluded:
“Our dinner was topped off with an uncommonly good cup of coffee and left us content and satisfied having enjoyed our dinner thoroughly!”
Coming across these six-paragraphs delights me for three reasons.
First, it’s a reminder of how long I have been honing my craft.
Second, what a lovely souvenir from my senior year.
Finally, though I never wrote another restaurant review in my life, discovering and critiquing new eateries is something that I still love to do with Marianne. We like what we like from an early age.
And it appears that we know how to pick ‘em, too. I just Googled the restaurant to see what might be in its place and would you believe, it’s is still there.
Just like we are, now.
But without this yellowed newsprint, there wouldn’t be proof that I was there, then.
I guess what I’m saying is, keep what you can, so you can take note of the miles you travel.
Marianne and I, many miles ago.