My wife and I make okay money in a middle class area, but, due to a combination of good luck, and contrived to circumstances, we recently got to watch a college football game in the stadium’s super executive corporate sponsor level suite. It was awesome. Open bar, amazing catered food, and people networking all around me who are clearly in the c-suite of their respective companies. I had a list of crazy things I was going to say if someone asked me what I did, but it never came up.
Well? Did you get food? Was it any good? Did they call you a peasant and tell you to buzz off?
They didn’t have a dress code, so we ate there. Pretty decent steakhouse; prices were a bit higher than, like, a Texas Roadhouse, but not as high as an Outback. I remember the baked potato was fucking enormous and they were all you could eat. But you probably wouldn’t even finish 1 because it was fuckin’ gigantic.
I wish I knew its name. They didn’t have a name on the menu, anywhere inside or on the outside. Literally the only thing even marking it as a restaurant was the little sign pointing into the alley that just said “steakhouse.” It’s like a sweet little secret.
That was no steakhouse. You straight up walked into a Mafia front. Like out of Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal music video.