Who Merited Something Grand

Ahh, the Orchard’s a good thing.  Old friends are a good thing . . . Falling asleep writing in the back of a cab, trying to write something cogent after a big brunch is an inevitable things, as well.

I’m not sure the story behind the Orchard.  I’ve a friend who lives nearby and he’s referenced it before.   I can only imagine like anything so big and beautiful, in an area of rapid development, it is precarious and has faced near-death more than once.  I looked out today at the frozen pond and the denuded willows and I thought of all the other memorable meals I’d had at this place with friends who merited something grand.

I appreciated today how distinguished the brunch spread was, in comparing it to all the many gratuitous breakfasts buffets I have access to at one hotel or another.  Every type of world cuisine and all manner of predictable must-haves are laid out and I usually just grab some fruit.  This Orchard arrangement feels as though a tasteful individual with their own personal preferences chose what to include and what to leave out.  I return more than once.

Great old friends have invited us.  The husband and I note that we’ve been friends for twenty-three years or so, have a young daughter who’s grown since the last time we met and she reminds me of my own, older daughter, who isn’t so young any more.  I ask the same follow-on question that usually gets a response to the boring opener “what’s your favorite class.”  “I don’t have one.”  “What’s the one you hate the most?”  “Chinese.  We have too much work in that class.”  I can only imagine.  I invested forty minutes this morning trying to read a bit of an article on a Chinese lunar rocket launch.  Even after all these years it's slow and grinding.  There is no way to memorize all those characters other than memorizing all those characters. 

“So," I ask, "which desert was best?”  “The carrot cake.  The chocolate cake was too sweet.”  I head off again for the obligatory desert run. There, in the queue, a loud blonde is making recommendations in a London accent to a gentleman of African descent and another fellow who strikes me as Syrian.  They don’t speak but I assign them British accents in my mind as well.  Most of the patrons though are Chinese.  And none of the food is Chinese.  And I’m glad that this seems to have been adopted by some, albeit well-heeled, segment of the local community and that the Orchard is self-sustaining.  Two young ladies catch my eye and duck into a private room where it appears some insurance company is having a function.  I consider following them in, but only for a second, and with my  dutifully continue on my way to our table, and lay my carrot cake down on our sunny perch at the other side of the restaurant.

Sunday, 12/09/18