Given that the average temperature in America has reached 69 levels, suggesting at every opportunity to dine outside is a given for an terrible portion of the population. That’s fine, just do n’t ask me to join you.
It’s really the seventh World Wonder for some people to still declare to enjoy eating outdoors. Man mastered people satisfaction with interior climate control, desks, chairs, and antiseptics. However, there is still a group of men and women ( mainly women, to be honest ) who find romance in eating meals while perspirational in the heat, shielding their perspective from the sun, and using cutlery and napkins to handle an uncomfortable breeze.
Beautiful. Have a good time, dirty. I’ll be in so I can relax without swatting away flying intruders, moving objects around to prevent them from blowing away, and using my hands to create shade so I can see.
While running one new late night along the Potomac shore, I witnessed a surprising display— , a good pair seated with platters of various finger foods. It was almost 80 degree, with some trendy restaurants outside, but the couple chose to sit on the ground. To support themselves, if you can explain it that way, they brought a cover and cutlery, but they had no seats, their poor backs absolutely aching as fiercely as their brows were beading.
Out of fear of having a panic attack, I averted my gaze. There’s no convincing me they were having a good time.
One of them was given the miserable idea of having to work atop the dirt and grass to pack food, cutlery, and whatever else needed for a sun-baked ordeal away from their homes. The other party presumably consented to enlist. ( I did n’t think to engage in a wellness check. ) When the horrific torture was over, they would begin the awful process of lugging it all back home.
No, thanks! Table for one, and I’ll take a booth if it’s available.
The outside horror meal is n’t much improved at an actual restaurant. All of the issues aforementioned apply, with the exception of improving the proper seating. Invariably, though, the outdoor furniture is far inferior to the comforts available inside. It’s usually metallic, perhaps rusted, with no cushioning. Prepare those coasters and napkins to help stabilize the rickety chairs and wobbly tables.
Do n’t get me started on that little Italian term outdoor dining enthusiasts use to make their primitive, sticky preference sound sophisticated. Al fresco? Alfresc- hell no.
Even if a dining companion would prefer to sit outside, it’s incredibly impolite to even inquire. ” Do you have a preference”? is agreeable, but to imply there’s a right answer with a question like,” Would you mind if we sat outside”? or,” Should we sit outside”? is abhorrent. It places the companion in the awkward position of having to explain why he prefers not to spend an hour trying to feed himself while rolling his back in a cast iron trap and shifting around in a cast iron trap.
Catch me inside. How ‘ bout that?
I am aware that there are times of the year or even times of the year when sitting outside is more bearable. Still, so long as you’re with me, no. Let’s have a nice time inside, where it’s as cool or warm as we would like, where the sun is n’t generating a distracting, painful glare, and the dirt and bugs are n’t encroaching on my plate.
I’ll be happy, and I promise so will you.
