Notes from Dinner
Sometimes the lentil soup is thicker than you expect, but you meet the most interesting people.
Who thinks about stepping outside in single-digit weather? Apparently, I do.
I had committed to my solo date for the week when a surprise companion joined me. No coercion. No convincing. Just one of those plot twists the universe slips into your evening and says, Trust me.
So off we went to Red Horse by David Burke, a colleague’s recommendation and clearly a restaurant built for social media glory.
The ambiance earns a solid 4 out of 5. High ceilings. Giant horse murals. A pool table. A phone booth. Signature plates that look like they belong in a museum gift shop. A place designed for drama and lighting. Aesthetic? Absolutely. Experience? That’s where things got interesting.
First came the mocktails. I ordered a caramelized mule whose name I immediately forgot, which tells you everything you need to know. It arrived watered down and forgettable. A drink, like a room, should have presence. Jennifer, our server, was gracious and had the bartender remake it with our very specific request for something with more backbone. We will return to Jennifer shortly, because she becomes the hero of this story.
Next came the appetizers. A small bread basket. Lobster dumplings. Lentil soup.
And then, at the neighboring table, bacon arrived hanging from a clothes hanger.
Yes. Bacon. On a clothesline.
Had I known what fate had planned for our appetizers, I would have happily traded for that hanging bacon like a woman at a medieval market.
The lobster dumplings tasted more like flour than lobster. Then came the lentil soup. Before we even lifted a spoon, we could see it was thick. Not cozy-thick. Stew-in-disguise thick. Chef Kwaku later admitted it himself. When we tasted it, it was closer to a lentil stew than a soup. The prosciutto perched on top added little to the moment. The flavors felt lost, wandering without direction. It needed rosemary, thyme, and a little more courage.
When Jennifer checked on us, we didn’t pretend. We offered thoughtful critique. She listened. Truly listened. And instead of shrinking, she leaned in.
Then came the main dishes. I ordered the steak frites. My companion, Beverly, chose the ginger salmon.
The steak was good and the fries behaved themselves.
The salmon was good, but the ginger sauce beneath it felt like it had missed the memo.
Jennifer returned, took one look at our faces, and said, “Let me call the chef over.”
And that’s when an okay dinner turned exceptional.
When the chef arrived, I immediately noticed the name stitched onto his jacket. Kwaku. Beverly lit up and began speaking Twi.
Turns out, Chef Kwaku is from Ivory Coast, with lineage tracing back to Ghana. A name that traveled. A story that crossed borders. We were pleasantly surprised by how much time he spent with us, listening as we shared our own ideas. Add a little more spice. Take some away. Let the dish stand taller.
He shared his culinary journey, from Las Vegas to preparing meals for Pharrell Williams, and now partnering with David Burke while raising a family. The kitchen suddenly felt very human. Not defensive. Not distant. Just open.
He suggested dessert.
I stayed loyal to an old favorite. A vanilla ice cream sundae and a cup of black coffee. A classic ending. Beverly chose the crème brûlée and declared it heavenly.
But the true star of the night wasn’t the meal or the décor.
It was Jennifer.
She offered laughter, a bit of entertainment, and reflections on her career and where she sees herself in five years. I was amazed to learn that she travels often to gain experience in fine dining so she can elevate her craft. Between food critiques and chef conversations, she shared patience, pride, and even a photo or two from her journey.
We learned a lot in between spoonfuls and stories.
What that dinner taught me was a continued lesson in the human experience.
We are all trying to make a dollar stretch.
We all show up with the best intentions.
And sometimes things don’t go as planned.
It’s okay to admit that.
It’s okay to admit the lentil soup was thicker than expected.
It doesn’t take away from the other great things that made the night memorable.
Not every dish will be great and not every moment will be flawless. But the effort, the listening, and the connection are what turned this night into a memory.
Not just for what’s on the plate, but for the experience, the human connection that we sometimes forget worked together to craft the memory.
And that’s why I keep going out to dinner.
Not just for the food, but for the stories that always shows up.
Notes from Dinner.