Descriptive Gordonville Grill

Delicate chocolates fade to coconut cream as they pass the lips of an elated lover. A soft, devoted kiss is shared. Rose, musk, and sugary-sweet perspiration thicken the air. That is the futile romantic’s interpretation of Valentine’s Day; the commercialized passion that directs the heartstrings of every woman. True love however, ventures well away from the likes of The Notebook or Fifty Shades of Grey, and while I wouldn’t confess to have a perfect relationship I do admire my husband’s attempts to be my kindred spirit. We’ve been at the restaurant for an hour now and have yet to be seated. Smoke escapes from the bar room, infusing with the warmth of the kitchen, and the breaths of other couples. The claustrophobic environment presses against …show more content…
This year we chose to come to the Gordonville Grill in hopes that its unusual location will deter other couples from seeking it out. The restaurant is located in the boonies, where roads lack asphalt, streets lack proper illumination, and parking lots lack lines. However, even with its faults, the quaint establishment is an ideal locale for a small family to dine, if we ever get seated. The waiting area, unusually placed in the middle of the restaurant, is composed of only four chairs, a deficient amount to accommodate the dozen or so people also waiting for a table. My feet are throbbing in pain, making me regret wearing heels — or more truthfully, ever purchasing them. I am fortunate to have gotten a chair to sit in before admitting defeat and ridding myself of my shoes. My daughter relieves her feet as well, taking seat upon my lap. My unfortunate husband however, must stand, leaning against the wall, nearly knocking off one of the many paintings of barns that adorn the dining …show more content…
I watch as the servers leave the kitchen carrying trays of food and promises of satiation, only to find out that once again it wasn’t our turn. Each passing plate I question my own order. Maybe I should have got the tilapia with the white cream drizzle, topped with shrimp. Oh, but the garlic and butter of the stroganoff smell divine. As I consider asking the adjacent table if they are going to finish their plate, our dinner finally arrives. There is a comfort that comes from a hot, fresh meal after a drawn anticipation. The steam lifts from my fried catfish fillets, and warms my lungs and soul in a way only nutritional value raped by peanut oil can. My husband seems similarly amused by his oversized, well-marbled steak, as is my daughter, by her savory burger. With each bite, I begin to understand how that little restaurant, in the middle of nowhere, manages to stay open. It isn’t much later that I wash my last skin-tipped fry down with a cool swig of Coca-Cola. With my hunger finally sated and its distraction dissolved, I take my first chance to appreciate the moment, and to my disgust I find that I am actually enjoying my Valentine’s Day in the