On/off topic here, but when I was a kid, there was a restaurant in my city called The Lily of the Valley. My grandmother on my dad’s side LOVED to go there – it was very old fashioned and catered perfectly to her preferred dining experience of grilled scallops, two double Manhattans and five extra long Benson and Hedges. All of the wait staff at The Lily of the Valley were ladies over the age of 65, an impressive push-back against the age discrimination that ran (and continues to run) rampant in the industry.
Sounds amazing, were it not for the fact that those women were the world’s scariest, ball-bustingly nasty jerks to ever sling a plate of roast chicken. Sweet merciful lord, they were some stone cold bitches, man. I really hated eating there, because there wasn’t a single server who could contain her loathing for anyone under the age of 60 (and I was a super well behaved kid in restaurants; if I was out with a bunch of adults – that happens all the time when you’re an only child – I’d bring a book for on-the-go entertainment, plus I had a pretty adventurous palette.) They didn’t even like my parents!
I tried not to look at it as some kind of karmic justice when The Lily of the Valley burnt to the ground some years ago, mostly because those nasty old servers are probably long gone (in the very finalest sense of the word.) Ah, but the locals say if you listen carefully, you can still hear their disdainful snipes and jeers, as the smoky tang of mentholated extra longs linger in the still night air. Actually, I’m pretty sure there’s a condo tower where The Lily once stood. Of course – it’s all condos now.