Yesterday around sunset we found ourselves in the mazelike streets surrounding the Fairmont Princess resort in north Scottsdale, looking for a place to park. Signs directed us towards the parking the Pumpkinfest, but at the entrance to the lost, we were informed the charge was seventy-two dollars, which included admission, so we drove back to the hotel entrance, where we were informed that our best option for parking for the steakhouse was to use valet parking, which would complementary if we got the ticket validated inside the restaurant. Ginger looked at the valet ticket as we went inside. It turns out the normal valet charge is a hundred dollars. Welcome to Scottsdale.
We'd been to the steakhouse before, a couple years back, for Ginger's birthday. She'd picked it out. They have wagyu beef, which is what she ordered. At the time I had gotten a normal steak. As she reminded me this time, I wouldn't let her taste my steak, as hers was so much better than mine.
As we dine early, the restaurant was almost empty and we got small table near the large plate glass windows. The waiter was friendly and offered us suggestions on cocktails and an appetizer. Since it was my birthday, I got to choose the latter. I took the waiter's suggestion to get the tuna tartare. A guy came out from the kitchen and prepared it in front of us, chopping up the other ingredients, including a quail egg, and reforming it in a triangle. It turned out to be a great choice.
In the meantime they brought out complementary duck fat fries, in three different varieties. I remembered we had gotten the same when we had come for Ginger's birthday.
We had been planning on ordering steaks, but it turns out that one of the house specialities is a Maine Lobster Pot Pie, which the waiter claimed was his favorite dish. We were supposed to be in Maine this week. The trip had been scuttled due to the ongoing health situation, and conflicts with various people.
As much as I wanted a steak, I decided to order the Lobster Pot Pie. Ginger ordered it as well, and when it was ready, they brought it out in a casserole and prepared the plate for us to share.
Ginger had told them it was my birthday when making the reservation, and they make a big deal about it, including giving me an extra desert item with a birthday candle, to augment to the white chocolate torte and the pumpkin cake that we ordered off the usual menu.
The card was signed by all the servers in the restaurant. I would brush it off, but it was the only card I got this year, so it was nice to get one.
Over dinner I told Ginger that I had received a flood of birthday wishes.
"Really?" she said, happily.
"Yes. I got a birthday text from my dentist. I got a celebratory happy birthday email from the apartment complex management, one from [name of company I work for], two from my banks, and one from Blitz the Bearcat, the new mascot of [undergraduate institution I graduated from and which I think about as little as possible]. And oh yes, Google sent me a happy birthday pop-up notice, to go along with their ones they sent telling me its Latinx heritage month, and some kind of pagan wiccan holiday for the extended solstice."
It makes the paper card I got from the restaurant staff seem downright traditional. I like the way it felt in my fingers.
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