The Most Expensive Meal I Couldn’t Afford to Pay For

In my early 20’s, I was flat broke with rich friends. So rich that when they took me to their home in Telluride, a tiny 12-bedroom, 13-bathroom “cabin,” they called it, if you looked out one window you were looking at Tom Cruise’s house, and out another window you saw Oprah’s place.

The ten of us went out to dinner to some fancy restaurant at the top of the ski lift and sat at a huge round table, with a spectacular view of the town of Telluride below.

Even the menu paper was fancy, as if it had been printed that morning, featuring whatever the chef had in the kitchen that day. All of it was a bit over-the-top for me, including the prices.

I had about $100 to my name. Like, that was all of my assets in cash, combined, to live on, and at this restaurant I’d be lucky if I could afford an appetizer and a glass of water.

Meanwhile, the group I was with decided they wanted the “chef’s menu,” a 7-course culinary adventure with a wine-pairing for each course. The price? Well, I had no idea. There was no price listed. Growing up poor, I knew what that meant--I can’t afford it.

But there’s a rule when you order the chef’s menu, at least at that restaurant- either everyone at the table gets it, or no one does. All eyes were on me, and I caved to drunken peer-pressure. The chef’s menu it was.

I should have known better. I’m not a foody. I’m absolutely not food-curious. And you cannot categorize me as food-adventurous, by any stretch.

I take my burgers plain, with extra cheese.

I don’t believe lettuce belongs on anything hot. Same with mayonaise.

Raisins don’t belong in meatballs.

Grapes & nuts shouldn’t be in chicken salad.

I won’t eat meat off the bone.

And I just don’t like seafood. Anything but the occasional salmon dish turns my stomach. I lie and tell people I’m allergic so they’ll shut up about it. I got tired of hearing things like,

“Oh, you just haven’t had GOOD lobster.”

Or, “You have to have the crab legs at...”

Or, “That’s because you haven’t had MY special catfish.”

No, Bob, I have not, and I will not. I’m allergic. Leave me alone about it.

You never realize how many seafood & fish advocates there are out there until you start telling people you don’t eat it.

So, here we are, at the fanciest restaurant in Telluride, at the biggest table, about to eat the most expensive meal I’ve ever had, with no way to even pay for it, and they drop the first course: shrimp cocktail.

I’m not one to make a scene, so I didn’t say anything, and just passed them around to the others, who really seemed to enjoy eating the flesh of the bottom-feeders of the sea.

I mean, I knew there was a good chance I’d have to eat something I never would have ordered on my own that night, but I couldn’t start with shrimp. You can see their tiny little shrimp veins!! Right there in the open. Nope.

As my friends finished their carcasses, the waiter dropped a dish of ice cream in front of me.

Dessert, already? Not much of a “chef’s dinner,” but honestly, I was a bit relieved. I might get out of this unscathed and still be able to afford a bag of peanuts on the ride home the next day.

But no.

That delicious little treat was not dessert. Apparently rich people eat a few spoonfuls of sorbet to cleanse their palette before each course. La-tea-dah.

I’m poking a little fun at it, but I’m actually grateful for the sorbet. It sustained me that night. Kept me from starving to death. Because the second course was...

You guessed it, swordfish.

Rather than fight it, I ate it, most of it at least.

Sorbet.

Third course...more fish. I ate some.

More sorbet.

Fourth, lambchop popsicles. Which you’d think I would have been happy about, but tearing flesh from the bone is almost worse than seafood for me.

Still, I ate some.

Have I mentioned the sorbet?

Fifth was...lobster. “Oh, you have to eat it with the melted butter. It melts in your mouth.”

They said.

But that was it. My poor, pioneer-stock, meat & potatoes lovin’, tummy could take no more.

Flippity-floppity it went.

Everything wanted out. The fish longed to return to the sea. The lamb yearned for the fields of green. That sorbet was already creeping back up the ol’esophagus, and nothing was going to stop them, not even the digestive process.

I shoved away from the table and ran to the bathroom without saying a word.

It was one of the most elegant restrooms I’ve ever seen. Large private stalls with full length doors. An attendant. Little colognes and mouthwashes on the marble countertops.

I could only admire it briefly before I projectile vomited everything I had eaten that day.

It seemed to take hours.

All I wanted to do was curl up in a corner next to my new toilet-friend, and sleep. I didn’t care. Everything hurt. My chest, my stomach, my knees on the hard tile floor. My throat burned. And the taste in my mouth was enough to make me throw-up again, had there been anything left.

Where was my attendant with my sorbet? If ever there was an occasion for a cleansed palette, this was it.

I used the wall as support and found my friends donning their hats, scarves, and coats, for the gondola ride down to town. I missed the last two courses: filet mignon and a bowl of homemade vanilla ice cream.

Figures. Well played, chef, well played.

On the upside, I also missed the check.

Gratefully, our host for the weekend ended up treating us all to dinner. A very kind gesture. A relief, actually. At least I wouldn’t be spending my evening washing dishes in the kitchen afterall.

I don’t know if it was the food, or the fear of not being able to pay for it, that made me sick that night. Maybe a little of both.

I think my past experiences like this (there were others) contributed to why I never hesitate to pick up the check when dining out with friends. Maybe it’s my way of returning the favor, paying it forward.

Sharing a meal, and dining out, is still one of my favorite ways to bond with friends and family. And if I can help them avoid projectile vomit, in any way, whether from food quality or financial concerns, I’m all about it.