An Escapade

Back in May of this year, I had a business trip to Monterey, California. (Yeh, it’s a rough life I lead.) My boss, Dave, told me before I booked my flight that I should fly into San Francisco, rent a car and drive down the coast to Monterey. Since I had never been to San Francisco before, that sounded like a peachy-keen idea to me. So, I tacked on a couple of vacation days to the trip, invited my friend, Betty, to tag along with me, and off we went on our little California adventure.

To shorten a rather lengthy tale, suffice to say the trip turned out to be not so wonderful. It wasn't truly “horrible” either, but we encountered so many frustrating events throughout the eight day journey, that I cannot say I enjoyed myself. Everything, and I do mean everything we went to do turned into an ordeal. So much, in fact, that I made a list – a long list – so that I wouldn’t forget anything when I finally got around to venting my frustrations on paper. This is the first installment.

On Friday, the conference I was attending ended early, so Betty and I decided to drive down the coastal highway to Big Sur and stop in Carmel By The Sea on the way back to have dinner at Clint Eastwood’s Mission Ranch Restaurant. The guy I sat next to at lunch that day told me that he and his wife had gone to dinner there the previous evening, that the food was good, and that Clint even stopped by the restaurant as they were leaving. Now, I’m an impartial CE fan at best, but it was something to do.

So, Betty and I took our drive down to Big Sur, which, by the by, was some of the most breathtaking scenery I have ever seen or will ever see in my life. Had I known then that I would be doing this blogging thing now, I would have taken pictures to share, but I gotta tell ya, pictures wouldn’t do it justice…one truly needs to experience this bit of God’s handiwork in person.

Sorry, got off track. Meanwhile...back at the ranch. We arrived at Clint's Mission Ranch Restaurant about 15 minutes before they started serving dinner, but the hostess told us we could go ahead and take a seat outside on the patio anywhere we would like. So, Betty and I stepped outside. There were a few bar patrons out there, but no dinner guests yet, so there were lots of empty tables from which to choose. Betty and I picked out a table and started to sit down. That is when it happened…we encountered Brunhilda…the patio waitress, who turned out to be not as accommodating as the inside hostess…which is to say, she was not accommodating at all.

Oh no, “Brunhilda” pointed at a table in the sun, with no linen, no cutlery, no anything, and told us that is where we would be sitting…no exceptions. When we asked why we could not be seated at the other table, we were informed that dinner would not be served for another 15 minutes. This we already knew, and we told the server that would not be a problem, and we didn't mind waiting. We just wanted to sit and take in the view and the serenity of the place, and maybe enjoy a libation while we waited for them to begin the dinner hour. Again, Gestapo Waitress told us, "You vill sit vhere I tell you, and you vill like it!"

Now, you must understand that I have a very short fuse...no tolerance whatsoever in fact...when it comes to this kind of thing. Besides, this was at the end of a very long, frustrating week, and Brunhilda here had just managed to pounce on my last nerve. By this point, I had decided I wouldn’t be eating there…not even if they gave me the meal for free, not even if Clint cooked it up himself and served it to me on a silver platter. No, huh uh, no way. Sorry, that's just how I am...don't piss me off, okay?

So, I walked back inside the restaurant and made my way back to the entrance and sat down to wait for Betty. If she still wanted to eat there, I was willing to sit and chat with her while she did so, but I wasn’t spending any of my money in that place. (Yeh, like that'll teach Clint a lesson, right?)

A few minutes later, Betty comes over to where I’m sitting and picks up the menu and starts perusing it. Now, this is a nice, big, leather bound menu, with embossed lettering on the front. So, a few seconds go by, and I ask Betty if she has picked out what she wants to have, and she says, “Oh, I’m not eating here.”

I need to take a moment to describe Betty. She is thirteen years older than I, about five feet tall, with short, grayish hair. She is retired, a widow, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, and is as spunky as hell. She had her right knee replaced last summer and needs to have the left one done, too. So, when I told her I didn’t want to eat there either, I watched – speechless – as this little old gray-haired granny opened up her purse, stuffed the menu inside as far as it would go, and said in a hushed, conspiratorial whisper, “Let’s go!”

Now, this scene I wish I had on video because…you must understand…Betty is 68, I’m 55, and we can’t muster one good knee between us, so here we go, with the purloined menu protruding from Betty’s purse, scurrying as fast as our aging, chubby, arthritic- impaired bodies will carry us across the parking lot to our rented car.

Of course, my speed was severely hampered by the fact that I could barely waddle...much less scurry...because I was howling with laughter the whole way. Plus, we kept looking over our shoulders to see if an employee, or even "Dirty Harry" himself, might be chasing us down to retrieve the pilfered item. Then once we made it to the car, I could hardly drive because I was still laughing and crying so hard from all the laughing that I couldn't see to drive. Ahhh, tears through laughter…it’s a very good thing.

So, there you have it…our little Carmel By The Sea escapade. If you see Clint, thank him for us. It is perhaps my favorite memory from the trip.

Clint...as if you didn't know already.

The scene of the "crime."


Two more photos of the "Ranch."

Got the photos through Google.