The restaurant was called Remy - a nod to an authentic French restaurant. Nevermind that we were nowhere near France. Nor land, for that matter. We were on board a Disney cruise line, in the middle of the ocean. And, the chef was exactly what you would imagine when casting a French chef: rudy cheeks, round belly, and mischievous eyes that sparkled against his accent.
We decided on the full 8-course dinner. Each course served on an actual silver platter. The waitstaff would line up, circle around, then present each of us at the exact same moment. Perfect choreography cueing a perfect, impressed response. I think we actually cheered the first time.
Over three hours, we oohed and ahhed over the presentation: the drizzled sauces, the intricate cuts, the precisely plated entrees. We savored the flavors and exotic tastes.
From the outside, it was exquisite. A private room. Wined and dined. Surrounded by family.
But inside, I was crumbling. A week before our vacation, news had surfaced and things had changed. My marriage was falling apart, and I remember sitting in my black dress at the white-clothed table - in what should have been an unbelievably romantic experience and feeling nothing but emptiness.
Things are not always what they seem, are they? Like the French restaurant. Looking in, you could have been fooled into thinking it was real. But really, it was just an imitation. It was alluring and appealing from a distance. Inside, strangely hollow.
It was the strangest combination. A full stomach paired with a broken heart.
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