…and Other Rules for Fine Dining.
Imagine it: April 2025 (like, a hundred years ago). The Hubs, my take-a-bullet-for-me friend dubbed Travel Buddy, her hubs, and I are on a West Coast bucket list trip to see Alcatraz (recommended) and the Redwoods (highly, highly recommended). Between prison and the Endorian-like wilderness lies time to explore San Francisco.
We braved Fisherman’s Wharf, Chinatown, and Lombard Street. Neither Travel Buddy nor I pushed anyone’s Hubs off the cable car to go rolling down Nob Hill. Wins all around.
But this night, the couples split up (lest Travel Buddy or I should push someone’s Hubs off the Golden Gate the next day—three days into an eight-day trip and far too early to start explaining things to detectives).
The guys took a Waymo self-driving (aka driverless) car to see a baseball game. And here I have to google team names because sports don’t stick in my head...
Ah. Yes. San Francisco 49—no wait. That’s football.
The Giants. They saw the Giants. No idea who they were playing…
Anyway, after the guys ride away, Travel Buddy and I start the “What do you want to eat—I don’t know what do you want to eat?” game.
It’s pushing evening. We’ve walked so far up and down hills, we wanted something local to the city (so no greasy golden arches) and relatively uncomplicated. Bonus points if it can’t be confused with a disco or strip club.
Google offered up a local farm-to-table joint that wasn’t too far from the hotel. The photos looked good. Dessert was all my brain registered.
Uber Guy picks us up. Travel Buddy and I try to banter with him, but he’s not taking the bait, so we banter between ourselves.
I spy a cool-looking wizardy-magic-wandy-looking place along the way. I say I may want to go there tomorrow. I’ve been searching for the Magic Wand That Works since I was a small child.
Our heretofore mute Uber driver looks at us in the rearview mirror, first at Travel Buddy, then at me, and with all the direct politeness he could muster, says, “Ma’am, that’s a bar.”
Evidently, we don’t appear to be the target audience for the wizardy-magic-wandy-looking place. I’m not sure how I feel about being stereotyped. He did save me from setting my inner five-year-old free to shop for a magic wand, and then Adult Me would have to cover Little Me’s eyes and explain yet again why today won’t be the day we find that magic wand…
Anyway, sometime later, Uber Guy pulls up to what appears to be a guard station. With a barricade blocking the parking lot entrance.
“I don’t think this is it. We’re trying to get to a restaurant.”
“This is it. The restaurant’s on the grounds.”
Grounds?
Google didn’t mention this, or we were too travel-discombobulated to pay attention. No wonder Uber Guy was so… direct.
We were told to get out of the Uber. Directly.
I don’t see anything that resembles a restaurant, just more guards. And wisteria. The confusion settles in.
I focus on the purple petals. I’ve never seen wisteria close up. I take photos and… something catches my eye through a nearby window.
A familiar shape.
Followed by my brain offering up theme music.
And a Rolodex of light saber scenes.
It’s Darth. Darth Vader is in the window. Right?
I pull on the door, and yes. As a matter of fact. A statue of Vader is in this building. Of all the luck! Selfie time.
Selfie time while I’m being observed by a guy at a desk who’s not amused. I leave the building a little tickled and even more confused. But at least Desk Guy didn’t call the guards. Or put us back in the Uber.
Meanwhile, Travel Buddy finds a friend outside. A curly golden doodle and its human, who tells us we’re standing on Presidio grounds (a former military post turned National Park). George Lucas’s Digital Arts Center uses some of the buildings.
Now things are starting to make sense.
Doodle Owner says, “There’s a Yoda fountain around here somewhere.”
And that’s it.
That’s all it took for Little Me to come undone. I mean, if we can’t buy a magic wand from a bar tomorrow, we will absolutely find the Yoda fountain tonight.
But first, food, which Doodle Owner confirms is around here somewhere.
As we stroll to Piccino, my mind spins on Yoda. And the luck that some random restaurant pick would dump us in this place with Star Wars goodies. I was stoked.
So stoked that I asked Maitre d’ Guy if the Yoda fountain was close.
Too stoked to notice that we’ve picked a *slightly* upscale farm-to-table joint that has a maitre d’.
I sit down and realize we’re dressed like weary travelers and not at all like the other patrons. I push the thought away because, after all, Maitre d’ Guy let us have a table—and he told us about Yoda.
So I’m still stoked.
Until the menu comes.
I’m not a foodie. I struggle to make Rice-a-Roni. I can’t read half the words on the menu. I’m googling words like “soubise” and “pangrattato.” Autocorrect is having a field day and when it does land on a food thing, I still don’t know what the thing is or how it might taste.
I make Travel Buddy order for both of us lest I end up with a plate full of Yak Balls again (things happen).
She’s getting aggravated with me because this is a close-quarter kind of seating arrangement, and I’m making a big deal out of not being able to read the menu. Other diners are seated sooo close to us. They don’t seem to have trouble reading these terms. And these people got dressed on purpose to come to this place. If I spill something on them, it’d be nice to tell the dry cleaning people what happened.
I look down at my attire. A years-old, three-sizes-too-big NaNoWriMo dragon sweatshirt with stains around the cuffs that I’ve drug through the airport and worn two days in a row because it’s freezing in San Fran.
“Don’t.” She knows where my brain’s about to go.
I don’t listen.
I pull the neck of my sweatshirt and peek inside to remind myself what’s underneath.
“Should I take this off? What’s under is worse than what’s on top.”
“Stop.”
“I’ve got a psychedelic Lululemon from Goodwill on under.”
“Quit.”
Her one-word commands are hissed through gritted teeth and suppressed tears.
She ups them to multiple-word commands. “Don’t. Don’t start.”
I start.
Things go downhill. Travel Buddy stops making eye contact with me.
So, Fine Dining Rules, here we come.
1. This isn’t Applebee's. There are no photos or subheadings to dumb things down. Leave time in your travel itinerary to look up essential menu words, but still not know what they are because this is the equivalent of googling how something smells.
2. Don’t start shedding layers in case what you’ve got under is worse than what you’ve got over. Or maybe you’ve got nothing under and should’ve headed for that wizardy-magic-wandy place.
3. This isn’t Cracker Barrel. Fine restaurants tend to forgo battery-powered mood lighting and opt for live flames. Tuck up your stained, baggy dragon sleeve before reaching for your water glass.
4. This is not the place for your Great Value off-brand concentrated water flavor squirty stuff. Leave it in your bag. You’ll have to drink your water straight.
5. Do not discuss Great Value off-brand concentrated water flavor squirty stuff with your Travel Buddy because she will hiss at you.
6. When the shared salad dish comes, don’t steal the serving fork. You have lots of forks by your plate to choose from. Don’t lick off the dressing from this fork, either. This is communal cutlery, and your Travel Buddy will find out what you’ve done when she goes for seconds on the salad and the proper fork is missing.
7. Do not look at your Travel Buddy at all during dinner, even though you feel like a jilted lover in a quarrel. She’ll choke and spit-take, and you’ll have to pay someone’s dry cleaning bill.
8. See Yoda first, then promise your inner child dessert to make up for that wand thing. This is the proper order of events and could save multiple fine-dining faux pas.
9. Don’t tell your Travel Buddy that this is all gonna be a blog post someday. This will earn a string of words, all hissed out through tears and gritted teeth, “Stop, I’m begging you. Stop.”
