Walk this Way

If there are Pelicans on the Menu –

don’t dangle your toes in the soup.

          In 1975 we stood up and left a restaurant for no other reason than its’ resemblance to a mortuary.  The wait staff wore tuxedos, the dark, burgundy drapes were thick enough to keep out any flicker of hope, and other than the sound of our own hearts the place was dead silent.  Just being shown to our table was eerie.  The 90-year-old seating host seemed to take exaggerated steps.  I kept expecting him to turn to us and say, “Walk this way.”

          This was a beach community in an “Old Money” type neighborhood.  It is always easy to tell the old money.  There are telltale signs everywhere, although driving to the restaurant we obviously missed them as the high walls, fountains, and sculptured topiaries obstructed our view.   

An Ounce of Pretension

is worth a Pound - Sixpence

         

          I have often wondered where old money comes from.  Flickering black and white movies of Europe and various garlic-bergs did not reflect images of prosperity, but just the contrary.  Even when Europe was new it looked old, worn and used up, and yet here, migrated to the States are these pockets of wealth, with oceanfront restaurants. 

          I had some distant relatives with “Old Money”.  They kept plastic on the furniture, various rooms were actually roped off with velvet cords and stanchions like those used in movie theaters, and their cars were purchased without extras or options.  No radio, no wheel covers, no floor mats, and no ashtray.

          The concept of “The American Dream” is as old as Europe itself.  The obvious problem is that we as individuals don’t have the same dreams.  While you may be dreaming of owning a castle with indoor plumbing, I may be dreaming of the world’s largest coconut cream pie.  We’re all different.  Add to that the seemingly endless differences in language, the various dialects, occasional impediments, and the odds of you getting your exact wish plummets.

          I expect that if I were to chase the American Dream, I’d be doing it on foot, and would be out of breath long before you could say, “What’s the matter with that guy?”

          Most everyone else would arrive before me and the only thing left would be a job as a seating host.  With tired and blistered feet, I as well would probably walk funny.