Only at the Melting Pot, or Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Emily found this odd lamp on craigs list. It reminded me of the ineffective lamps at the Melting Pot, which reminded me of my one and only time of dining there. It happened something like this . . .

I dated once or twice before I met Emily. One of the differences between a dating relationship and marriage (especially after you have children) is the quality and expense of an eatery when dining out. On this particular occasion (I'm sure in an effort to impress the girl I was dating at the time), I chose the Melting Pot. She'd mentioned the place before and was, in fact, impressed (ah, success) when I pulled into the parking lot.

I'm not sure if all Melting Pot's are like the one in Tallahassee. Like the old man slowly drinking his brandy, much to the waiters' chagrin, I enjoy a clean, well lighted place. I assume they do it for atmosphere, or maybe to lower the utility bill, but the restaurant was very dimly lit. I guess it's romantic, in a medieval dungeon sort of way, the use of low wattage bulbs behind obscure orange shades, but it seemed they needed a pocket flashlight to take us to our table.

After about an hour and a half of slowly cooking my meal one bite at a time in luke warm oil, I was still hungry and looking forward to desert. During the course of the meal I managed to drink about four glasses of sweet tea, so I decided a quick restroom break was in order prior to our chocolate fondue.

After that long in a darkened chamber, one's eyes become quite adjusted to the lack of light. Which is quite unfortunate when you walk into the men's room which (I guess it is a state health department requirement) is lit with 200 watt fluorescent bulbs. I felt the fire scalding my retinas as I walked in the door.

After finishing up I stumbled my way back to the table, completely blind. The hostess, apparently familiar with the situation, pointed me toward the back of the place. I was still unable to see as I slid back into the booth. I rubbed my eyes and shared the whole ordeal, scalding and all, with my date, occasionally dipping a piece of fresh fruit into the chocolate and slowly savoring it. Why bother with the meal in this place? It's the desert everyone is really there for anyways. Plus it would have cost almost thirty dollars less and I'd still have two hours of the evening to spend with my date somewhere I'd actually be able to see her.

After sharing the story with her, and eating probably more than my share of the fruit (and I was still hungry), my eyes were finally adjusting to the flicking orange light. I could just make out my date's hair when she spoke, "What the hell are you doing?!?" It was a man's voice. I squinted and leaned toward her. It was a guy! A guy with long hair! UGH!

I quickly got up and found my date several tables over and again ate more than my share of the fruit. At least, I wasn't hungry anymore.