Last week, our son, Eric, and his wife, Laura, entertained my wife and me at a local restaurant. The establishment is fairly new in Medina and going there is what I would refer to as an upscale dining experience.
My simple criterion for such a definition is the restaurant’s use of cloth napkins versus paper ones (Not having 10 teenage employees rushing to the table next to you clapping their hands and singing “Happy Birthday” to the tune of the Bristol Stomp doesn’t hurt, either).
The atmosphere, service and food were stupendous. I told the owner/chef that it’s too bad that I didn’t write a food critic’s column because I would give him a big thumbs-up. He asked that I, at least, mention the name of his place in whatever type of column it was that I wrote; I told him that I was sorry but I couldn’t.
“You see, the integrity of my column would be in jeopardy if I went around promoting private enterprises,” I explained. “And losing credibility is the last thing that I can afford. My dignity is not for sale.”
“I’ll give you a free cup of coffee,” he countered.
The name of the place is Zambistro.
The dinner was a Mother’s Day gift to my wife from Eric and Laura. And as a by-product of begging, I, too, was treated.
Once we were seated and in the course of conversation, my wife suggested that I tell them about the golf tournament that I had just competed in. My son acted surprised, as he knows that I am not one who delves into that type of activity.
“Tell him,” my wife prodded, as she rolled her eyes in a gesture that said: I want you to know what your father has been up to.
As my son is well aware, behind our house is a huge field that is used as a golf-driving range. It’s not usually very busy and so I pay an annual fee to go out there and smack balls around. I use different clubs and walk around hitting them in every direction except where I am aiming.
“So tell me about the tournament that you were in,” Eric inquired between bites.
“Well, actually, it was a fantasy tournament out in the back field,” I explained. “And I was the only real person there.”
My son shot a glance at his mother, who was giving him look of see what I mean? And both were questioning the veracity of my self-descriptive words of being “real” and being all there.
“A fantasy golf tournament, Dad?” he stammered in disbelief.
“Look, it’s the rage,” I said. “There’s fantasy football leagues all over. They even get coverage on TV and newspapers. Why can’t I have a fantasy golf tournament?”
Humoring me while sampling his French-fried sweet potatoes, he said, “How many were in the tournament?”
“Just our one foursome — me and three fantasy guys,” I said.
“And how did you do?” he asked while wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin.
“Unfortunately, I finished in last place,” I bemoaned.
“Wait a minute,” he said, “It was your fantasy and you finished in last place? How did that happen?”
“Well,” I shamefully admitted, “I got into an argument with a fantasy rules official and he had me disqualified.”
Sensing that their looks of concern should be addressed, I said, “Would it make you feel better if I told you that I was in second place at the time?”
The coffee was great, by the way!
And that’s the way it looks from the Valley.
Tom Valley is a Medina resident who writes a weekly column every Thursday. For comments write to Tvalley@rochester.rr.com.
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