My Dream Meal :: essays research papers

High on a mountaintop overlooking the shore cast of Cruz Bay in St. John of the U.S.V.I., there sits a small restaurant called Chateau Bordeaux. A mid-sized deck protrudes come forth the back of the restaurant. Nine fudges are randomly placed on this patio, each with its own single white candle in the center. It is night, and bright wicker torches line the veranda, consecutively spaced about six feet apart. Looking down at the bay, colorful lights from the inner Caribbean city reflect onto the glistening water of the shore. The tables are laid with solid white China and beautifully shined silverware. Tall crystal wineglasses are placed at each setting, each filled with ice cold pia coladas. In the background, you are able to make out the melodious tune of Unchained Melody being played softly on a piano.Sitting at a table closest to the cliff sits my boyfriend and I, gazing at the radiant view of the sea. Jack is wearing a jet-black tuxedo with a blood red dress shirt underneath the jacket, and I am wearing a long, flowing black, fitted, strappy velvet gown with black satin slippers and a small silver diamond necklace. My hair is gently stirred by the constant trade winds of the Caribbean, adding an almost eerie effect to the mood. As the two of us sit down to eat, we are befuddled with the exquisitely prepared meal set before us. The main course sits near the center of our table, just inches forth from the candle. It is a braggart(a), wooden bowl filled with salad from The Olive Garden and mixed with their own, homemade dressing. At each of the two place settings that we sit, there is a large plate of angel-hair pasta topped with just the right amount of delicious marinara sauce, and sprinkled with only the best parmesan cheese. Next to the wooden salad bowl in the center of the table on the opposite side of the candle, there is a small wicker basket filled with Olive Garden breadsticks, covered by a shrink flowered napkin. This fine meal is just beggin g to be consumed.