I’m just glad the bartender didn’t ask me to kill my family

I eat the same food every day; coffee for breakfast, whey shake with banana for lunch, chicken burrito from Spyke’s – a diner just down the street from my house – for dinner. It’s not part of a diet plan or some new-age attempt to balance my amino acids or electrolytes. I’m not trying to gain or lose weight.

I eat the same food every day because it’s easy and requires no thinking on my part.

As a single guy, dining out is about as cheap as eating in. Best of all, someone else has to do the dishes.

At Spyke’s, the waitresses don’t bring me a menu because I know what’s on there as well as they do. Plus, like I said before, I always order the same thing.

I think this is pretty typical single guy behavior.

This past weekend, however, I was forced to alter my routine. I took a little holiday to Traverse City and for two days dined at restaurants other than my regular haunt.

In the two days I was in TC, I hit a Mexican place, a breakfast joint, and a pub featuring the worst live music I’ve ever heard.

My last stop, however, was the most memorable; an establishment called Stephen’s Place. It looked fairly casual from the outside, but when I entered I was bowled over by the opulence within. One glance told me I was seriously underdressed. Incredibly, the maitre d’ didn’t seem to mind, even though his suit probably cost more than my last three cars. I asked for a seat at the bar.

Artfully-lit sophistication surrounded me. The bartender took my order. What I wanted was a Bud Lite draft, but I was already feeling rough and uncouth in my jeans and T-shirt. I ordered a Cosmopolitan. A chimp looks classy drinking a Cosmo.

As my eyes adjusted to the light I realized the place was not crowded. I was, in fact, the only customer. A very talented piano player (“Doc” Woodward, a Detroit area legend from back in my glory days) was coaxing a Sinatra tune from a grand piano that glimmered black as ebony under the stage lights. He was doing his best to entertain a crowd that wasn’t there; the mark of a true professional.

The bartender brought my Cosmo. I drank some and it was excellent. It did not make me look elegant. A chimp might have, but not me.

The bartender placed a small bar menu beside me, just in case. The appetizers looked wonderful, but there were no prices listed; never a good sign. Like a yacht, if you have to ask how much it costs, you can’t afford it.

I sipped a bit more cranberry-flavored alcohol. The maitre d’ hovered nearby, as did the bartender. Alert to my every need. Rarely have I garnered so much undeserved attention. My slightest gesture was being carefully monitored on the off chance I should need something.

I thought about the lone twenty dollar bill nestled in my wallet and wondered if it would be enough to cover the drink, plus tip.

Visions of Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” passed through my mind, particularly the scene in which he’s sitting in the empty, elegant bar of the Overlook Hotel and the ghost bartender suddenly materializes. The bartender here looked substantial enough, but so did the bartender at the Overlook, just before he convinced Jack Nicholson to go after his family with an ax.

It was time to leave. I paid my tab, the twenty just covering it. Back home, I could have had a couple beers, a burrito and a basket of freshly-made chips for the same money. And at Spyke’s, there is no hovering maitre d’.

Vacation’s over. It’s good to know what’s for dinner tonight.

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.