The Fly and the Hair
The large, shiny green fly lay flat on its back, eyes bulging and lifeless among the other greens on my wife’s salad plate—its tiny little black legs reaching skyward, beside a river of ranch dressing. “Eeeooooo!” I turned to see Susan’s face puckered in disgust.
You might know, MY first thought was—“Systems failure!”
A few years ago, some close friends of ours from Kansas had called saying they would be coming to Tennessee for a family visit, and they hoped to have dinner one evening with my wife Susan and me.
Susan quickly recommended a popular Nashville restaurant that had just opened its second location, not far from where we live. The chef, who years before had established the first restaurant, calling it by his first name, had become very successful and well-known for his great food and service.
Susan and I had eaten at the Nashville store on a number of occasions, and had enjoyed getting to know the always-genial chef with his rich Eastern accent.
When our friends, Karen and Tim, arrived at our home, we rode together to dinner, as we assured them of the “wonderful experience” they were about to have. I have to admit I bragged a bit about knowing the chef, personally, and hoped for the chance to introduce our friends to him. Both Karen and Tim are successful business people, well-traveled and familiar with nice dining, so it looked to be a good choice.
With an air of confidence, high expectations, and hunger pangs all around, the four of us arrived at the restaurant within minutes. I wondered that the parking lot was less than half full—but, after all, it was a bit early and it was a new restaurant, not yet known in our small town.