The Melting Pot: It's Like Eating America!

So I just got back a bit ago from my birthday dinner with Scott and Stacy.
We went to The Melting Pot, a place I’ve heard them talk about for pretty much as long as I’ve known them.
For the uninitiated, such as I had been, eating there is a rather involved affair.
First of all, you have an appetizer course, during which you dip bread and vegetables into a fondue pot full of cheeses of your choosing. You then have a salad course. Next up is the entrée during which you are brought pieces of various kinds of uncooked meat and seafood which cook yourself in a fondue pot full of a broth of your choosing.
Finally, you have your desert course during which you dip fruits and pound cake and assorted other things into, you guessed it, a fondue pot full of melted chocolate.
The whole process takes a while – we were there for almost two and a half hours – and you end up eating a lot of food.
It’s pretty damned pricy, though, so I’m glad I wasn’t paying for it.
In addition to the meal they bought me a little gift basket that came with a balloon, some coupons, and two kinds of chocolate ideal for melting and dipping (and, Scott assures me, just plain eating).
While it was good, I don’t imagine it’s a place I’ll go to very often, if ever, as it’s too much of an investment of time and money, and, like most of the world, it’s not really designed for a single person.
I imagine that it would be a good place to go on…one of those…things. A dart? A duck? A debutante?
You know, those things that I’ve heard about where people go out to eat or to see a movie when they either are having or are at least possibly considering having sex with each other. A whatchmacallit.
Those things that pretty much account for Hugh Grant and Sandra Bullock actually having careers.
It’s like the fruit, or the days on a calendar.
A date. Yeah, that’s it.
I seem to vaguely recall having gone on those sometime in the dimly-remembered past, and it seems to me that this place would be good for one of them because you would get a lot of time to sit and talk, and given the ungodly cost of it all you could impress a chick with your seeming affluence.
So yeah, clearly there’s not going to be any good reason for me to go there again anytime soon.
Beyond dinner, Scott bought me a copy of that comic book database software I mentioned here before…mentioned with the intention of getting Scott to buy it for me for my birthday.
He was worried that I might end up buying it for myself and was glad that I hadn’t, but there was no danger of that happening, as I was waiting until after my birthday to give him the chance to buy it for me.
If he were a trained seal, I would have tossed him a nice fish when he gave it to me.
Good job Scott!
(And thanks.)
On my way out of the parking lot I was treated to a nice sight: short skirt, sexy boots, great legs. As I was making the turn, my headlights were at the perfect level to bring them into focus. Didn’t get a chance to see the face, but they were the kind of legs that authors of noir detective books come up with all kinds of colorful metaphors to describe, and that probably ought to be insured by Lloyd’s of London, the kind of legs that, if life were a Tex Avery cartoon, would have made me transform into a wolf and howl while my eyes bugged out and made an A-OOGAH!!! sound.
So yeah. Great legs.
I was out of milk, but didn’t want to stop at an actual store to pick any up, so since I was in that neighborhood I went to the convenience store that I frequent on workdays before heading home.
And that was my night, and that brings my birthday saga fully to a close.