For reasons too complicated to explain, I ended up tonight eating dinner alone in the Ruth's Chris Steak House in Pikesville. No more saturated fat and salt for me until next month. I've used up my allotment.
Anyway, I walked in without a reservation, and the hostess asked me my name. I made up one, let's say Smith, and from then on I was, Smith, party of one, as in "Please show Smith, party of one, to her table." I kind of liked it. It gave the whole evening a kind of gravitas it wouldn't otherwise have had. ...
I do want to mention my waiter, Winston, master of upselling, and yet he made me love every minute of being upsold.
Naturally I had to take three-fourths of my dinner home, and Winston did something no one thought of when we were talking about doggy bags. He brought the leftover containers to the table and ceremoniously transferred the food in front of me, as artfully as he might have filleted a fish.
This is the perfect solution, it seems to me. I didn't have to do any work, it was mildly fun to watch him do it and I didn't have to worry about, well, anything.
Ask for Winston if you eat there.
(View from my table by me)