WARNING: In relating this story, I must make use of some rather heavy forms of profanity. If I self-censor, I think the overall power of just how obnoxious the subject matter will be lost. Just warning those who happen to read this at work. Also, I don’t want to give my father and uncle a heart attack.
The Scene: a few blocks away from David Burke Primehouse, Chicago
“Wait! Wait. I think we are going the wrong direction.”
“You said to turn left, we turned left.”
“I know, but I think we should have turned right back there, near Ontario.”
I exhale fully, emptying my lungs of their contents completely. I waited a beat before inhaling.
“Okay, what time is it? Reservation is for 10, right?”
We had landed not more than 45 minutes prior, at Midway. One crazy taxi ride later we were at our swanky boutique hotel, the Affinia. Now when I talk about crazy driving, let’s put in in perspective: People in the midwest think I can be a “crazy” driver; it’s really not so, I’m aggressive only when the situation calls for it. This cabbie was truly someone special, though. I’m pretty sure the cab only had two speeds: Stopped and WAYTHEHELLTOOFAST. He was perfectly content to leave the vehicle in the latter speed for most of our journey, including the several instances of blasting his way through intersections of packed crosswalks. I think it was at this point that I sent my sister a text along these lines:
“If something happnz to us, would you b Reese’s new mommy? We dont have a will so this msg will hav 2 do!!1!”
Anyway, we dump our stuff and ask the Affinia front desk chick for directions to the David Burke Primehouse. I’m pretty sure she didn’t really know where it was because her walking directions were completely duffed – OR I was still sort of jacked up from the adrenaline rush of a reckless taxi shuttle and couldn’t focus enough to pay attention to what she was saying. Or both. Anyway, we sort of rushed out of the hotel and in our hurry we made a wrong turn.
Next Scene: Standing in the lobby of David Burke Primehouse, being completely ignored by every server who walks past us
“Are we invisible?”
“Maybe we’re wearing too casual clothes. Do you think I have to wear a dinner jacket?”
“No, I see customers wearing jeans. We’re good.”
“How late are we?”
“Quarter past, I think.”
“Damn. I hope they didn’t give our reservation away.”
Just then a secret door opens just behind the host station. Dimly lit room reveals a few individuals, laughing and still pretty much ignoring us. One gent turns, sees us, then awkwardly excuses himself from the secret-hostess-makeout room to properly address us.
“Yes?”
“Uhm. Yeah, we had a reservation at 10. We took a wrong turn.”
“Oh. Let me see. (pauses) Philipsen?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we close at 10, just so you know but our kitchen is still open and our house is your house.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks?”
“Just a moment and we’ll seat you.”
He walks away, then returns briefly to lead us to a very elegant, very large booth. It seemed that everything was wrapped in some form of animal skin. While I would like to say that it smelled of leather and rich mahogany, the odor was more like seared meats and the vague perfume of various types of booze.
Soon I would realize that the booze scent was primarily coming from a table of three men. Probably the most drunken, obnoxious, and profane table in all of Chicago. And they were Right. Next. To. Us.
“FUCK YOU.”
“FUCK YOU. NO. YOU SHUT UP.”
We haven’t even ordered drinks at this point.
“LISTEN, YOU DON’T SEEM TO GET SOMETHING, AAANND I’M THE GUY WHO’S GOING TO TELL YOU…”
“SHITHEAD, I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE THE CEO OF BURGER, BURGER AND DUMBSHIT…”
“SHUT UP. YER GUNNA SHUT UP NOW. JUST SHUT UP. SHUT UP.”
“FUCK YOU.”
At this point, we’re still trying to take in our surroundings, to really enjoy the richness and beauty of this restaurant. But understand, it’s really hard to appreciate all this elegance when obscenities are being shouted and booze-thick spittle droplets rain down around us from the hot mess three feet away. We put in our order for soups and entrees, and then prayed for the miracle that the shouting asshats would just go away.
However, it wasn’t looking good. In fact, the whole night just got worse. Each round of drinks delivered to The Table of Utter Douchebaggery just upped the volume on the crass and vulgar discussions.
At one point, I looked over at my husband and noticed his grip on his steak knife was so tight his tanned knuckles were white. He wore the expression of a man who was about three minutes from doing something that I’m pretty sure would require a steep bail.
“SHUT UP AND LISTEN. Here’s what ya gotta do to make partner. I’m partner. You’re an associate. HEY, FUCK YOU.”
“I know your wife, she was an intern. I’m partner, and what you gotta…. no, I love your wife. She’s the only one I trust.”
“I’m not making fun of your wife! SHUT UP. I… I LOVE YOUR WIFE. She’s an associate. But, but, but HERE’S what YA GOTTA DO TO MAKE PARTNER.”
I motion to our server, Jeremy. I pat the plush leather-bound bench seat next to me. Obligingly, he sits down and I lean close to him, whispering.
“Jeremy, who are these guys?”
“Oh, yeah. I know. I know.”
“I mean, seriously, they are completely pie-eyed. They’re a mess. And they are really disrupting our meal and making it a very unpleasant experience. Any chance you could convince them to move to the bar?”
“Oh, they’re semi-regulars. Our bar in the restaurant actually just closed too.”
“Jeremy. We just flew in from Columbus Ohio so that we could spend our FIVE YEAR ANNIVERSARY DINNER in David Burke Primehouse. I realize that doesn’t make us shit, but seriously. If we wanted to listen to this, we could have eaten at Chili’s. Or Applebee’s. But we came here.”
“Oh, I know. I know. I know. I’m so sorry. I don’t think I can move them, but we’ll do our best to take care of you.”
And so I released him, allowing him to do his best to mitigate what was becoming for us an incredibly disappointing night. While our respective meals were gorgeous (bone-in filet for me, a beautiful porterhouse for Chris), the atmosphere was probably the worst I’ve ever experienced in ANY setting.
At one point, we just tried to make light of the situation. Mostly by mocking the sots at the next table.
“Maybe I could pelt them with my truffle oil french fries? Do you think they’d feel it through all that booze?”
“Oh, EFF YOU EFF YOU EFF YOU. I’M KIND OF A BIG DEAL! I’m the C E O! I’m the C. E. O. of DOUCHEBAG, DOUCHEBAG, and DRUNKENIDIOT. I’M A BIG DEAL!”
“No, YOU shut up! NO. NONONONONONO. No YOU SHUT UP. You don’t understand! Shut UP.”
Basically, we acted like a couple of grade school children and mimicked their excessive and vulgar tirades to make ourselves feel better. We continued to make fun of them long after we payed our bill, laughing our way back to the hotel.
In fairness, the restaurant was just lovely, the food was incredible, and Jeremy did try to make our evening special with a luxurious dessert (compliments of the house, of course). God help David Burke if we were internationally-known food critics, because our overall experience that night was truly atmosphere FAIL.