A few years ago, while we were still living together, Pita and I passed by a restaurant called Social that was along the market. We looked in at the elegant, minimal atmosphere, the nicely dressed people, and the intricate dishes that were being served to them. Looking at the menu posted outside, and noting the lack of decimals in the pricing (everything was in flat dollars), it was mutually agreed that going there to dine without a reason to celebrate was out of our budget. Just walking inside was something that we would have to earn, and we made an agreement. For the term, if I could manage all As (anything from an A- to an A+, or a GPA of over 8.0) and if he could win his next competition (for both standard and Latin ballroom dancing) than we would walk in one day and order anything we wanted.
The term came and passed, and in the end I only managed a bunch of measly grades, while he got bronze at the competition. We never spoke of it again.
Until this week. After traveling abroad for more than a year and working in his native country, Pita came back to Canada to settle down. He decided to live the rest of his life in Montreal, but he was able to visit for the weekend. We agreed on lunch at Social, not needing any justification between each other. After all, we graduated, found jobs, started to settle down. We hadn’t seen each other in over a year.
He had the duck, I had the lamb. Both were unbelievably succulent, tender, and came with fresh salads in a light dressing, along with super-thin fries. Even though we weren’t dressed as well as what some would call the “regular” patrons, we were served well and with respect, something can’t be said about all the restaurants I’ve been to. To be honest, I’ve never been given a choice of water (regular, mineral, soda, or sparkling, the man told us). I paid this time, and Pita agreed to treat me when I visit him in Montreal.