August 5th, 2004


500 Blake Street in New Haven

This is a beautiful restaurant at which we held our meeting last night. A tip for those of you dining at this high-end location...

If you pull into the drive along side of it and hop out, you will ascend a short flight of stairs to a beautifully kept porch and will be confronted with two identically plain, brown doors. You will pull on the left one first, but it will not budge. You will play around with the handle a little, but alas...not an inch. Not a millimeter. You decide that this door is hopeless, and will move on to the next.

Walking over several feet to the next door, you pull and notice that this one gives slightly with your increased efforts, but will still not open. You tug harder but the door appears to be jammed. You briefly return to the first door but again, give up quickly and return to the one where you have made leeway.

You wonder how the restaurant ever does any business if people must work this hard just to get in.

Feeling the door loosening a bit, you brace yourself against the building, give two quick, thumping tugs, and then ripping backward on three, cause the door to fly open, splinters flying from the doorframe.

You now find yourself two feet away from a distraught family of five, staring at you, confused. You find it odd that these people are seated directly in front of the door. It seems poor planning.
The hostess approaches and asks that next time you arrive, you come in through the entrance, which, she indicates, is the decorated, easily-openable glass door marked "Entrance," around the corner on the other side of the building. You look over and acknowledge her observation. You have not come in through the entrance. You have, according to the bartender, broken through a locked emergency exit.
You glance over to the inside of the second door-- the one you were unable to open-- and there is no door there. You spent 5 minutes trying to open a door that was not real. Adding to your embarrassment is the fact that you are wearing a pin striped suit and carrying a Jansport backpack, since apparently you can't decide if you are forty or twelve.

You conduct the meeting, enjoy your dinner, and go over the itemized bill with the manager, trying to pretend that nothing embarrassing has happened that night.

You go home and debate if you should

a.) never go to a meeting there again, or should
b.) take every possible opportunity to do so, with the hope of showing off your newfound knowledge of how to enter the building.

You are pathetic.