I Can’t Read Your Menu

The candles on your tables have put my girlfriend and me in the mood. The mood for romance, yes. But also for LASIK.

I have large pores, but thanks to your restaurant’s magical twilight, no one can see my face’s aerated lawn. I’m no Brad Pitt. I’d need different lights and parents for that. But your eternally lusty dusk hides the major, top-line features that scream “HE’S NO BRAD PITT, BUT.”

Does that word here say Marinara or Maria? I used to know Maria. She wasn’t kind. I do not want to eat her pasta or one named after her.

Is the font on your menu 4.7 points? I’d recognize a good 4.7 font anywhere. I get it. Big lettering is gaudy and cheap. The big font is the TruckNutz of menus, used by chain restaurants that sell margaritas in paint buckets.

You serve scallops. Scallops are refined small-font food. At least I think they’re scallops. Does this say scallops?

Facebook’s privacy policy also had a small font. So did my divorce papers. In retrospect, I probably should’ve read both of those. Does this say Gluten or Putin?

I don’t have cataracts. But somewhere around age 40, my eyes went from regular, good eyes to the kind of eyes that feel like they’re low on battery and need to be plugged in.

So maybe this is me. But unless you can make my eyes better eyes, why don’t we just, for now, make a menu that’s easier to read? And maybe get a light. Not a big one. Maybe one of those small reading lamps you clamp to books, so you don’t wake up your spouse when you read in bed. Your spouse is already dealing with enough on account of being your spouse.

Anyway. Thank you. I’ll take the Peers and Arubula Fleshbread.