Mistaken Prostitution

Re-wrote this old restaurant review I originally posted back in 2006. The restaurant, 55 Degrees, closed about two years ago. The meal was forgettable, but what happened beforehand was anything but. ~Garrett

I had postponed getting together with my friend Kim and her hubby twice at this point for various reasons, so this time I was determined to not miss this dinner date. Unfortunately, I had come down with a bit of a cold, so after almost a bottle of cold medicine and a heroic amount of multivitamins I sluggishly tromped my way out to downtown. Luckily, even though I was sick, my taste buds had not been affected, so eating out was still an option. Kinda.

We had decided to meet up at 55 Degrees, one of the more contemporary restaurants that could be found on Capitol Street. Its steel and glass aquarium design created a chic, elite, sterile feel where politicos of every stripe came to dine and impress their guests. In a sea of suits and Prada loafers we were sorely out of place, but we heard the food was good and decided to wade through the business formal in a business casual manner.

Now, funny story on the side - I arrived about 20 minutes early so I paced around outside Capitol Street taking in the tall, abandoned scenery. It seemed I was the only person on the street which was both awesome and creepy in an Apocalyptic/Freddy Kruger movie sort of way.

After a while having exhausted any bits of garden or sculpture to examine I leaned back on a dimly lit lamppost and checked my test messages. "10 more minutes. - Kim." It seemed they would be late. I looked up to find my line of sight locked with an idling car a few meters away. The car then drove up, rolled down the window and a doughy, middle aged man poked his head down to look at me to, I assume, ask direction. This would be his loss as I was still relatively new to exploring Sacramento having rarely left the town of Davis. He looked at me, "How much?"

At this point my face contorted into I can only imagine what (probably something of a placid, white hot rage) as I stated in a dead tone, "I... am not a hooker!" His face went pale. He looked away and in an instant the car screeched off with a trail of smoke from his tires burning out trailing behind.

Great. This was worse than the time my I couldn't flag my mom down at the airport to take me home because I was wearing my dingy, old hunting coat. She thought I was a crazy homeless person. (Thanks, mom. And, yes, I still wear the coat.)

Stunned. I turned around and saw Kim and her husband and I ran up to them. "Hi! Sorry we're la-"

"Do I look like a hooker!?" I screamed in a slightly frantic manner.

"...What?!"

I explained. Kim conferred that I did not look like a prostitute and we attributed the pervert's mistake was due to my pacing Capitol Street, leaning on the lamppost, and my hunting coat which, yes, I was wearing. Maybe it was the blush that my slight fever gave, possibly street light gave my sickly paleness an alluring street-walker look? She thought the whole damn thing was hilarious, and in retrospect, it is.

Either way, lesson learned: no more walking the street in dingy coats. That, or, ask how much first.