James and I went on a little vacation to St. Louis. Approximately 4 hours away, we decided to just get away for a long weekend.
I had made our hotel reservations in advance, and since the last time I was in St. Louis I was like 8, I didn't have a good feel for the area. I chose the Sheraton in a suburb. It was significantly cheaper. I figured James and I are pretty tough, so if we ended up in a crappy neighborhood, we'd be able to take care of ourselves.
Well, the suburb the hotel is in is Clayton, Missouri. Which happens to be the nicest, most ritzy suburb of St. Louis. Clearly, James and I looked like a couple of hobos when we checked in-- amplified with tattoos a blazin'.
It was later in the day when we checked in, so we set off on foot to find something to eat for dinner. We had found a restaurant online, but forgot what it was called while we were walking, so the first place we saw, we went in to. We should have known we were in the wrong spot when a valet opened the door for us and a maitre d seated us. Further more, the first question the waitress asked me was, "What kind of water would you like?" There is more than one type of water!?
James and I were not the right kind of customer for Morton's... clearly. But we stayed. We had wonderful (and EXPENSIVE) meal. But most importantly, James made Morton's his bitch by eating a 26oz porterhouse steak in a restaurant fit for celebrities in less than 15 minutes while wearing a beanie.
We walked to a pub down the road after dinner in search of a place that we fit in. We never really found that place, but there was a bar with beer on draft, so we settled for that. The place was full of men in suits, and ladies in pencil skirts. So formal for a so-called Irish Pub. We were drunk and merry. And had way more fun than those stuck up young private college folks.
Watch out, Clayton, Missouri. James and Jackie are here!
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