43 Years, Fork Insecurity, and Still Figuring It Out

My husband and I recently celebrated 43 years of marriage. This will not be a trip down memory lane. Nor will it be the pretentiously humble impartation of wisdom to all those starry-eyed couples just starting out on how to make it to 43 years. We’re still figuring that out.

This is simply my savoring of an exceptionally elegant evening, in hopes of either inspiring you, dear reader, to seek out a similar evening for yourself. OR…to go get in line at In-N-Out Burger.

A while back, Chip spoke at an executive leadership event. As a token of appreciation, they gave him a gift certificate to a restaurant. Not just any restaurant. It’s called The Hobbit. And it’s nice. Really nice. Like, there is no black rubber welcome mat with the restaurant’s name on it. And no take-out parking spot out front.

Knowing my husband’s culinary leanings (nothing unpronounceable, containing over 6 ingredients, or covered in a sauce not consisting of red or green chile), I inquired as to how he would feel about an anniversary dinner at The Hobbit. No deception was involved. I fully disclosed the restaurant’s likely menu constraints. He said yes! And I made the reservation before he could eat a juicy hamburger and change his mind.

The anniversary evening arrived, and so did we. Looking quite sharp, if I may say so, as we crossed the threshold of normal life into The Hobbit.

I knew this place was legit when they greeted us by name and made meticulous notes about food allergies. I’m allergic to shrimp. It probably won’t kill me unless I eat a plate of it with no Benadryl in sight. But they were quick to offer substitutions for any shellfish sauces that might lead to an ambulance at their front door at evening’s end.

The lovely host directed us to the wine cellar where hors d’oeuvres and drinks were being served. The bartender greeted us by name! How did he even know? Confidentially, I could get used to this.

I ordered myself one of the top five, no top three, best drinks I’ve ever tasted. The Windy City: a refreshing lavender-lime sparkly martini glass of deliciousness, not too sweet with no jolt of alcohol.

Then we were ushered upstairs to our table where the magic began.

Wanna confuse a girl from a trailer house in east Texas? Put a plate of food in front of her flanked by a plethora of forks, spoons, and knives. I just grabbed the one that made the most sense to me and dug in.

Course after course after course. This was my kind of supper. Leisurely. Cooked by someone else. Flavors bordering on adventurous. Again…I could get used to this.

If you’re a meat-and-potatoes type, this particular establishment may not be your vibe. Though it worked out great for me. As soon as the next of a dozen courses showed up, Chip would gingerly dip in his utensil just enough to garner a tongue-tip taste. More often than not, I was the grateful recipient of the virtually untouched amuse bouche—a bougie term for food served in a thimble—or green congealed concoction or thing-ending-in-”liver.” But not the rolls. Nope. We both went at those hot, lightly crispy, sea-salt dusted rolls like a church potluck lady goes at Jell-O salad. And not the pork. The marinated pork belly was savory and fatty and all the things a healthy food item called “pork belly” should be.

Our carriage turned back into a used BMW and pulled into the garage around 10 o’clock. The dogs greeted us exuberantly, and I immediately changed into my PJs, plopped down on the couch, and propped my feet up on the coffee table. Chip reclined in his massage chair and flipped on the TV.

“This was a perfect evening,” I said.

He agreed.

I continued, “You know what else is really nice? Sitting here in our living room with the dogs watching TV.”

After 43 years…he agreed.