February Fools Day

Sometimes things aren't as they seem. Well, come to think of it, things usually are not as they seem.

And so it was, when I assumed the newly opened restaurant called Twin Peaks not far from my Stepford-style neighborhood would be the kind of place with mass appeal eats and an exotic destination theme. "Great Food!" read the polished graffiti on the window. "Enjoy the Views!" What could be bad.   Lots of fried appetizers and floor to ceiling vistas of snowy mountains in Alaska, a juicy burger and some disgustingly rich chocolate dessert. I was salivating as we approached the entrance. It seemed fortuitous that the other end of the parking lot, the one near our intended destination, had been packed and we found ourselves so tantalizingly close to this new establishment.

I should have known something was a amiss when the hostess who greeted us looked dressed to give lap dances in a back room just in case traffic got a bit slow out front. (Okay, I probably should have known something was amiss when there were so many parking spaces, but it was freezing outside and my brain wasn't firing on all cylinders.) Wondering where the young hostess's parents had been when she left the house in the dead of winter with her butt cheeks poking out of her super tight shorts on one side and her breasts squeezed together and protruding from a skimpy tied up flannel shirt like a giant udder on the other, I soon realized she was not alone in her bizarre choice of mid February professional attire. Waitresses began to slink out of the woodwork, all revealing substantial chunks of body parts most of us only see in the shower, all bejeweled in identical belly button rings and decked out in, if not identical, similar tattoos. I couldn't quite make out the design nuances in the dim lighting. Ahh. Twin Peaks, idiot. I felt like a bit of a fool, particularly when I looked around and noticed I was practically the only female there. Except for staff, of course, many of whom sat perched on stools at little bar tables so they could better offer peeks at the peaks while scribbling down orders.

The food at Twin Peaks was edible but certainly nothing to drool about, though there was certainly an inordinate amount of drooling going on. My date looked as happy as I'd seen him in a long time, though, come to think of it, he did not seem to be looking in my direction. There was not a hint of exasperation on his face when our waitress continued to appear without his beer, and only a slight flash of annoyance when she forgot my water for the third time, but come to think of it at that point he did seem to be looking in my direction. Oops, my bad. I told the naked waitress not to worry, I'd just suck on my saliva if I got thirsty. And I offered her my down coat.

Truth be told, the food wasn't bad, the staff was, um, very friendly, and dinner was very pleasant. Attention from a scantily clad perky nymph can put even the most curmudgeonly among us in a decent mood on a cruel and cold Midwestern evening. No faux Alaskan vistas for me to gaze at, but then again who really needs an Alaska fantasy in February in Chicago?

Next time I'll know better, and I'll head down the road a piece to the more demographically appropriate hot dog joint with the dancing, smiling wiener on the roof. Not today, mind you. It's April Fool's Day, and this is one day I refuse to make any assumptions about anything. But sometimes, probably on most days except for today, a hot dog joint is just a hot dog joint and the dancing, smiling wiener on the roof is just a dancing, smiling wiener.