50 Shades of Brown

Perhaps once in a lifetime, everyone experiences a “perfect storm”. That meeting of unstoppable forces from different directions and intensities that come together in the most perfect of conditions. Something so memorable that movies are made about them. I’m not looking for a feature film here, but I’ll take Saturday Night Live if they are willing.

The following events are true.  Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

The year is 1997. My first wife and I were returning home from a road trip across the country, we were hungry for dinner and saw a pleasant looking place on the shores of Lake Coeur d’Alene in northern Idaho.  Tony’s Dinner Club from the outside looked well maintained but the building was dated going back decades.  We climbed the steep stairs and noticed that we would have an exceptional view of the lake as the sun lingered in the sky that evening.

Inside, we were met with an ENORMOUS mirror, with a patented leather wall underneath it with leather buttons. It reminded me of the interior of pictures I’d seen of Las Vegas Casino’s in the 50’s and 60’s. We were seated quickly against the windows and had an amazing view of the lake. One other table was occupied by a non-descript couple and our waitress was attentive. We examined our menus and ordered when she returned.  While waiting for our appetizers, we noticed an elderly couple walking the sidewalk towards the stairs.  I’m not even sure I could describe it as walking because I couldn’t tell which one was supporting the other.  Separate, I don’t think either could walk far without falling, together it was almost painful to watch.  By some miracle, they made it up those steep stairs our young legs had tired on.  As soon as they opened the door, the staff seemed to explode. 

“Oh Connie, your table is ready for you, right this way.”  Looking at them carefully now, they looked Italian or Sicilian, in their 80s.  Both shorter, plump and weathered.  He still had a healthy portion of hair slicked back with some thinning.  She had a bleached blonde/grey perm and large rose-colored sunglasses on.  They looked like characters from the Godfather but retired.  Before they even sat down (which required assistance), they had a large plate of anti-pasto waiting for them.  Raw vegetables, pickles, pickled herring, and crackers. We got our plate as well soon after.

The hustle and bustle of seating them down subsided, they placed their own orders, and we all proceeded to enjoy our appetizers.  Soon our food arrived, and we dug in, tired and hungry from the full day of driving.  Suddenly, the loudest belch I had heard in years (probably from inside my HS locker room) ripped into the air. Startled, I looked around.  I couldn’t be sure, but the culprit seemed to be Connie.  Trying not to stare, I kept her in the corner of my eye, and sure enough, from that red lipstick covered lips, another immense belch assaulted my eardrums. Chalking it up to some elderly gastro-intestinal infarction,  we returned to our dinner.  The food was excellent I remember, but those are not the details that remain after 28 years.

MORE PICKLES! That cry would haunt our thoughts and dreams for weeks to come.  Connie had yelled it out in the middle of the restaurant.  The waitress almost tripped over herself trying to get to the table. “You want more Pickles, Connie?  I’ll go get some right now!” I didn’t stare, but I could have sworn our waitress ran to the kitchen door where someone met her with a small plate of pickles.  BELCH.  MORE PICKLES.  By now, our eyes had locked briefly, and we were both holding back tears trying not to fall down laughing. The waitress ran the pickle plate back to Connie and her husband (who by now I suspect was Tony) and delivered it.

Soon after, a group of 3 people sat in the booth behind us. We weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but the restaurant was mostly empty, and you could unfortunately hear everything. From the conversation and their attire, they seemed to have just finished playing golf, which is a common occurrence in Coeur d’Alene.  Our waitress (who got a generous tip from me) walked up to take their order. Understand, I am not a judgmental person, but when I describe what happened next, it is from a purely historically accurate retelling.  In a voice that can only be described as blue-blooded full-blown snob, the spokesman for the group stated “Yes, could I have a beer please? One of those local micro-brews” placing as much condescension on the word “Local” as he possibly could.  Clearly, they were not from here.  Our waitress then retreated to gather their drinks while they talked, and we ate. 

BELCH.  MORE PICKLES.   Really, I’m not kidding an ounce here.  I couldn’t make this up if I tried. Someone else this time came SPRINTING out of the kitchen with more appetizers for Connie and Tony who now had enormous plates of food in front of them which looked like a warm up.

Our waitress returned to the table behind us with the ordered beverages and struck up a conversation. She too had gathered they had just come off of a golf course.  She asked them which course they had played.  (I can’t for the life of me remember the names, so I am making up this part, I promise). It went something like this: 

“We started at Worthington Heights Country Club and checked out the course.  It did not meet with our standards, so we drove over to Rolling Hills Course. We like it much better”.

At which the waitress in an inquisitive voice replied “Oh, you didn’t like the $250 green fees?” but without missing a beat, the spokesman for the group replied, “Oh no, the course was not challenging enough for us”.  I almost got up and hugged the waitress.  It was the most beautiful delivery I had ever witnessed.  They didn’t even realize she was mocking them.

The rest of our meal was more high-class conversation behind us, and the belching chorus of the “Flight of the Valkyries” from Connie and Tony who proceeded to eat more pickles, plus a healthy portion of desert. 

We paid, tipped our waitress and slipped out of the restaurant. Once down the stairs, we finally started laughing.  We talked about the events of that dinner at length that evening and in the weeks and months to come.

More recently, I’ve learned that Tony’s is no more from a long-time resident. It does sadden me. What a beautiful view, great food, outstanding service, and even occasional entertainment. I can imagine other people who happen to have experienced what we did that day, chalk it up to a freak of nature. But I do hope that this story helps to preserve the exquisite dining experience that was Tony’s Dinner Club.