My wife and I went to a place to celebrate our 24th wedding anniversary. Let me tell you about it.
For context and backstory, I am a terribly simple man who , despite my simplicity and lack of refinement, has circled the globe and got along almost every place I’ve ever been. I’ve preached on 3 continents, dined with the wealthy and the pauper, seen war zones and high rises, fought for love and treasure, and generally had a grand life that I in no way deserve.
But I am still, despite all this experience, just a white boy from the South—the great-grandson of sharecroppers. Now on to the story.
As I mentioned, my wife and I have somehow made it 24 years and though money is always tight we wanted to do something special. I had looked into dining at a Brazilian steak house (because where else am I going to get to eat ostrich meat without hunting it down myself?), but frankly, on no planet is my wife going to eat $54 worth of meat. This is a woman who orders a kid meal and takes leftovers home, after all.
“Tell you what, sweetheart, you pick”. And so she picked ‘The Sugar Factory’. I don’t know if you are familiar with this chain, but I had never heard of it.
“Do they make sugar there?”
“No, its a restaurant.”
“What kind of food do they serve? Not that it matters.”
“All kinds of food. Julies sisters uncles cousin went there and they said it was nice.”
“Um, Ok. You call we haul, boss lady.”
And yes, that’s how I talk. But I digress.
We arrive at the gayly lit building that has, for a logo, a rubber duck. My confusion is mounting by the minute, as the sign underneath says ‘An America Brasserrie’. I misread this as ‘An American Brassiere’.
“What in the blue blazes kind of joint is this?”
She was now reading off their website “It says its a casual American-French restaurant.” My interest was piqued a little because, as a Louisiana boy, I will look for any excuse to speak French. We went in and I have to admit, I was a bit taken aback. The place had high vaulted ceilings, chandeliers, and booming music. Scattered around the place were several scenic spots where clusters of people were taking pictures of themselves, and off to my left was what appeared to be an in-house candy store.
“ We aint in Wilacoochie anymore, darlin’”
We were seated and they handed me a rather incomprehensible menu. On the back of the menu were a bunch of photos of people that I was told were famous. On most of one wall was a screen playing video loops of more people I was told were famous. Hung on the wall high above us were even more photos of strangers that I was supposed to recognize. I recognized Adam Sandler but other that that, I got nothing.
It was really obvious to me that this vague association with the self-important was supposed to either impress me or make me feel important by proximity. It appeared to be the main selling point of the establishment. At the next table was a tall guy who could have easily been a basketball player—not that I would know. Hanging around his neck was a gold chain and his name (I assume it was his name) in gold letters about 4 inches high. Pretty handy if you forget your own name, I suppose. I looked at the menu and looked at his table and did a quick rough estimate on what kind of money he was spending when our waitress arrived to take our drink order.
“Miss Tori” (pro-tip—always learn the waitresses name, and always be nice to people that touch your food) “I can’t make heads or tails of this menu. All I want to drink is some sweet tea. I don’t need a $52 fuzzy navel zombie apocalypse or whatever.” She told me they didn’t have any sweet tea, but she would be more than happy to bring me a lemonade.
We ordered some tacos (remember—it’s a French restaurant) and I tried to get the lay of the land. The place was crawling with unusually tall guys dripping in jewelry accompanied by women in tight dresses and fake eyelashes taking pictures of themselves. My wife spoke up as a Miley Cyrus song that was much better as a Weird Al song blared overhead.
“This is nice.”
“You think? “ I looked around and decided I was just glad to be with her.
Time went on and I kept waiting for my lemonade. Finally Miss Tori showed up with what appeared to be a frosted fish bowl mounted on a wine glass stem and a shaker. She poured a reddish liquid into the fish bowl from the shaker. The fish bowl began to smoke and bubble and sputter.
“Is it supposed to do that?”
“Oh yes sir, its one of our signature flourishes here at The Sugar Factory.”
“The heck you say.”
Time crawled some more. Miss Tori swung by to let us know that she had thrown a fit in the kitchen about how long the food was taking and as a result, most of our meal would be free. I was suddenly a huge fan of Miss Tori. The food arrived and it was good—but I mean $35 for a taco it had better be good. We ate and looked around as the least self-important people in the restaurant. Presently I guy came by that I assumed was the manager. He apologized profusely for all sorts of things, including the food delay and told us that not only had most of our meal been comped ( her food was free, and the smoldering fish bowl was free) but that we could also go into the candy store and grab whatever we wanted. He handed us some plastic containers for candy.
I’m not a fan of the prices, or the music, or the ambience or the vibe of this place, but the man just offered me free candy. Everybody has his price and he had found mine.
My wife wanted to be delicate about it and only take the bare minimum so as not to be rude. We, after all, don’t need free candy. I had a different approach.
“Sweetheart, they are selling gummy bears here for 13 dollars a pound and the man what runs this place gave us a bag and turned us loose! I mean, Snoopy Dog shops here!”
“That’s not his name.”
“Less talking, more candy bag-filling”
Now the secret, dear readers to candy bag filling is the same secret to so much of life; put the big rocks in first. I loaded up with chocolate -covered Swedish fish then shoveled in scoops of chocolate-covered sunflower seeds. I wound up with a solid mass of candy. My wife, by contrast, had this loose conglomeration of bits and pieces; a variety, but not enough to seem greedy.
We paid the (small) bill, gave Miss Tori a (big) tip and then waved at the manager on our way out.
“Thanks for the help, son! You are the man!”
I found my car, we got in and as I turned the key my wife said “I’d come back here again.”
“Have you lost your mind?”