After spending every hour of the day over the last few weeks being glued to my seat in my room moving from deadline to deadline, I forgot there's so much more to life than the four walls of my room. Once in a while, it's nice to say to myself enough is enough. As a wise friend said, don't spend so much time trying to make a living that you forget to have a life. A break once in a while is well-deserved, and I pushed aside my inexhaustible pile of workload to enjoy a day off. (Or at least an afternoon, as I was still working my way through the pile up until the moment when we met for lunch.)
A while ago,I bookmarked Society as a restaurant to visit. After a recent traumatic experience at another restaurant though, which gave a bad name to all Italian restaurants in Melbourne, we weren't sure if we wanted to try another Italian restaurant so soon. We hemmed and hawed the better part of an evening before finally biting the bullet and making our reservation, and boy, I was glad we did.
When we placed our orders, the owner of the restaurant dropped by and apologized that the food may take a while to arrive, because, in his charming Italian accent-tinged voice, "the chef in the kitchen was ..." He trailed off with an expressive wave of his hand and a cheeky smile. Seems like the chef was inebriated with alcohol. Or maybe something less innocuous. (I'm pretty horrible at sign language.) But I like the restaurant already. With such a relaxing, it's-all-good-here attitude, there wasn't a better place for me to go to to unwind.
I had a lovely red chosen from their list of house wine ($7.50), which I liked, but which EJ disapproved of. He's a red wine snob. I, a different kind (one which also ends with _ _ob.)
A while ago,I bookmarked Society as a restaurant to visit. After a recent traumatic experience at another restaurant though, which gave a bad name to all Italian restaurants in Melbourne, we weren't sure if we wanted to try another Italian restaurant so soon. We hemmed and hawed the better part of an evening before finally biting the bullet and making our reservation, and boy, I was glad we did.
When we placed our orders, the owner of the restaurant dropped by and apologized that the food may take a while to arrive, because, in his charming Italian accent-tinged voice, "the chef in the kitchen was ..." He trailed off with an expressive wave of his hand and a cheeky smile. Seems like the chef was inebriated with alcohol. Or maybe something less innocuous. (I'm pretty horrible at sign language.) But I like the restaurant already. With such a relaxing, it's-all-good-here attitude, there wasn't a better place for me to go to to unwind.
I had a lovely red chosen from their list of house wine ($7.50), which I liked, but which EJ disapproved of. He's a red wine snob. I, a different kind (one which also ends with _ _ob.)