Fried chicken and Kleenex

Last night, the husband and I dined at Table 52, Art Smith's restaurant, to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Art Smith is a famous chef, known for his soulful, southern cuisine. He was Oprah's private chef for many years. I enjoy, but am not a fanatic for southern food. Yet last night, I met Art Smith and I immediately started sobbing.

Scene: Husband and I are seated on the first floor of the very small, intimate restaurant. We were served our entrees. His, a 20 oz. rib eye, mine "Art's fried chicken and mashed potatoes."

Art Smith approaches our table.

Art Smith: Hello. Are you enjoying everything?

Me: Oh my God. Art Smith. Art. Smith. I'm eating your fried chicken. (Tears begin a slow leak). I'm so honored to meet you! It's our first anniversary! Art. Smith.

Art Smith: Oh, great. Well happy anniversary. (He signals his security detail for assistance)

Me: I'm crr. crryyyying.

Art Smith: Oh. Oh wow you are. Well, there are many more important things to cry about. Please don't cry. Please? Really...please?

The husband sympathetically smiled at Art Smith and shook his hand. I'm sure there was a slight possibility he just wanted to ask Art Smith for ketchup or something but was distracted by my loud sobs.

I don't remember how it was that Art Smith eventually left our table but when I dried my eyes and looked up, he was greeting the remaining tables with little to no reaction from his regular patrons. To them, it was no big deal. Just another dinner on a Sunday night.

The morning after, I am working through the reasons I cried in my fried chicken on our first anniversary. Was it too much champagne? Was it because I knew the fried chicken would show up in the form of saddlebags within 12 hours on my body? It's quite possible that the husband will never take me out to dinner again or that I may be served a restraining order today from Art Smith. But I've forgiven myself. My reaction was honest and authentic. It was a surprising occurrence on a very special night. I can only hope that no matter how many anniversary dinners we have at great restaurants, I'm never unaffected.

Also, my affections for Art Smith were further confirmed when he gave us doggy bags before the police escorted us out. How thoughtful is that?