Tomorrow is S’s birthday. He wants to go to Benihana. At first I thought he must be joking, but no. This is his choice, and it’s his birthday, so to Benihana we’ll go. Who knows, it could be fun.
It never occurred to me that anybody else in New York would want to go to Benihana, so I didn’t make a reservation. Repeat after me: Debbie is an idiot. S just asked me if I’d reserved a table, and smirking, I said no. He was clearly nervous about that fact, so to humor him I called. Their first available opening is at 9:30! I have no idea who all these people are, going to Benihana in midtown Manhattan on a Saturday night. Tourists? Possibly, but why would they be so anxious to go there that they’d make a reservation in advance? Is Benihana a destination restaurant in New York, and I just never realized it? Maybe it’s a phenomenon akin to the inexplicable crowds at the Times Square Olive Garden—with all the authentic Italian food to be found in this city, exquisite preparations unique to specific chefs in specific restaurants, people choose the bottomless bowl of mass-produced faux-Italiano.
Or perhaps my food snobbery has gotten the better of me.
No. I just looked at their web site, and it uses the word “eatertainment.” I am not a food snob (not to an extreme extent, anyway). This is silly.
Please, let me be wrong about all this. I just want S to have a happy birthday! Something tells me he will, though. He seems to know exactly what we’re in for.