I made the mistake of ordering The Special, both for the appetizer and the entree. I knew from experience, of course, that The Special would cost twice as much. But I expected–no, I hoped–that this would be different. I had eaten at this Japanese place before, but I had never had The Special. Where did such hope come from? Wherefore such delusions? Was it because I was trying to make nice with the waiter?
Did I want to be friends with him, or make him believe that America is a place where everyone orders The Special? Did I want him to like me?
I wasn’t disappointed at first. It was delicious. One of the best Specials I’ve ever had, so much so that I can say unequivocally that it lived up to its name. It. Was. Special.
And yet, when the bill arrived I was confronted with what I already knew. It had returned in the exact form that I expected.
Perhaps I was only disappointed that it didn’t cost more.
Those specials… eternal optimsim. Is it the name “special” that attracts us?
I bet if they called them “Extra Specials” even more of us would just have to choose it.
The word “Chef’s Special “- always gets me because it makes me think that perhaps its the best choice on the menu, because the rest of the food on the menu could (be default) have been made by the short-order cook and dishwasher.
I once ordered the “chef’s special” while in France. Apparently, it was whatever the chef happened to feel like cooking. I had never been in France before, but I had heard about its culinary prowess.
As I recall, the French chef’s special consisted of a runny fried egg draped over what would have been a decent spring salad. I could have come up with that.