Just One Little Candle

     My friend, Donna, and I decided to treat ourselves to lunch the other day at one of those upscale, downtown, trendy restaurants. Anticipation was high, as we donned our best outfits and headed for the big city. 
      When we arrived, however, our expectations were doused—or I should say dimmed. The restaurant interior was so dark, we barely avoided bumping into the furniture and other diners on the way to our table. What’s up with that? 
      Andrew, our waiter, handed us each a menu, which of course we couldn’t read for lack of illumination. Instead, we simply chose to listen to the specials for the day.  
      “I’ll have that,” Donna said, when Andrew paused for a breath. 
      “Me, too,” I added. 
      While waiting for our food to arrive, we squinted into the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of the supposedly elegant décor—not a chance. We might as well have been dining in Carlsbad Caverns, with the lights out. 
      “Do you think there are bats up there?” asked Donna, scanning the shadowy depths above us. 
      While we pondered the spooky prospect of bats hanging over our heads, Andrew brought a basket of freshly baked rolls to our table. We knew this because our mouths began to water with the heavenly aroma. Locating the basket, however, was another matter. 
      “Ouch,” said Donna. “That’s my arm!” 
      “Sorry,” I replied, “I was reaching for a roll.” 
      Next, Andrew brought our entrees, placing them deftly in front of us. We squinted, trying to make out the objects on our plates. 
      “Could we have a bit more light?” asked Donna. 
      With a flourish, Andrew whipped a fancy, long-handled lighter from his apron and lit the tiny votive candle in the center of the table. 
      “We’re going to need about five or six more of those,” I said. 
      Andrew gave me a haughty glare, then turned to leave. He kissed his tip good bye! 
      “What do you think this is?” asked Donna, stabbing a piece of food and holding it up for my inspection. 
      I pulled out my trusty penlight attached to my key ring and directed a tiny beam of light at her fork. “A shrimp,” I declared.
      “Yum!” she replied. 
      We continued to stab blindly at our food until we began to feel full. Now I know how Helen Keller must have felt. I just love that movie.  
      I rubbed my fingers around on my plate to make sure I hadn’t overlooked something. Nope—all gone. I licked the tasty sauce from my fingers and waved my napkin in the air, hoping to attract Andrew’s attention. 
      “Check, Madame?” he asked, suddenly appearing from the darkness. 
      “Please,” I replied. 
      Now, I’m not saying I won’t go back to that restaurant. The food was quite good. But I have one request for all you restaurant owners out there. Could you lighten things up a bit? Being able to see your food, as well as taste and smell it would add a whole new dimension to the dining experience.  
      Imagine that! Well, actually, I wouldn’t have to, if I could see it!