Last night, I had dinner at the Tokyo American Club.
Since escaping America, we've mocked the American Club as a bastion for bored, bridge-playing, ex-pat wives/socialites. And to be honest, I don't think we're entirely wrong. The building sends off "Let's impress everyone with our money" vibes.
The lobby is a vast expanse of carpet and seating areas, like a hotel. The ballroom where our dinner was served is decorated with a half dozen crystal chandeliers and walls draped in burgundy velvet and tasseled gold cord.
Dinner, a luxurious, six course affair with the usual bewildering array of flatware, was presented on TAC monogramed china by waiters who knew how to serve properly. The poor guy with the lobster thermidor was having a challenging time balancing the halved lobsters on his serving forks. Fortunately nobody at our table ended up with food on his lap (though there were a few close calls).
I certainly shouldn't mock the atmosphere too much. If it weren't for me being driven to do productive, creative work, I suppose I could be a bridge-playing, socialite wife. I knew what to do with all my forks and utensils.
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