I remember when going out to eat meant taking a break from cooking.
Now it means studying the menu like I’m reviewing a contractor’s bid.
An appetizer? Let’s not get reckless. Another drink? We should probably discuss that as a family. Dessert? Apparently, we’re celebrating an inheritance.
Then the bill arrives, and I start wondering whether we ate dinner or bought an interest in the restaurant.
I know food costs money. So do rent, utilities, insurance, and paying the people who cook and serve it. I’m not expecting someone to feed me at a loss.
But when dinner costs that much, I’d like to leave thinking, “That was worth it.”
Too often, I leave thinking, “We have chicken in the refrigerator.”
And please don’t charge premium prices while serving lukewarm food, making me scan a QR code, and treating a refill like a special favor.
I’m not blaming the server for the prices. They didn’t decide what the burger costs.
I’m questioning how a fairly ordinary meal became an evening that needs a budget meeting.
Going out used to save me the trouble of cooking.
Now cooking saves me the trouble of explaining the credit-card statement.