Dear Restaurant Franchin,

When I came to you without a reservation on Thursday night and you sent me away despite the fact that you were empty, I was hurt Restaurant Franchin. I'm not going to lie. Maybe you were expecting quite a few people, but it seemed like a dis. I don't want to perpetrate any stereotypes of snobby french restauranteurs, but I'm going to. Okay, I'm sorry, that's my ego talking. I'm fragile, Restaurant Franchin.

Last night, when I came again without a reservation and I mustered all of the French I could and asked (I think?) for a table for one and you gave it to me, I was confused. Maybe it's the old Ike and Tina routine, but you got me. Instead of a fur coat, my reward for crawling back to you was a delicious foie gras with paired sweet white wine, caramelized onions and sea salt. That would have been good enough, after all I'm fairly easy to please. But when you got down on your hands and knees and begged for my forgiveness with a perfectly rose filet mignon in pepper sauce with patate au gratin and snap peas, I realized once again that you're the boss. No, Restaurant Franchin, it's me who's sorry.

A fool in love,
jason