My two friends and I were on a girls date, and we went into a restaurant that used to be a Red Robin, and the new owners had designed the entire interior in pastels. They led us back to a booth I had been in before, back when it was a Red Robin, and I remembered that at the time, there had been a long red curtain that separated this booth in particular from the rest of the room. It was so intimate then, but this corner booth was still intimate, sans-curtain. We could see partially into the kitchen, and I heard someone within calling my name.
A man who was too obviously a chef wearing a cartoonish white hat was smiling at me. He called me by name, but I had no idea who he was. He kept asking me if I recognized him, from that time years ago when I had sat in this very booth when it was a Red Robin. I tried to remember having a conversation with any chef, ever in my life, anywhere, and came up with nothing. My friend attempted to distract him by picking up her eggplant parmesan cutlets and placing them over her eyes screaming, “I am a God! I see everything!”
Rather than deter him, it only served to increase the volume of the room, and now too many people were talking, every time a word was spoken another person entered the room and started yelling, and the whole restaurant had turned black and red. Night had fallen outside and I felt as if I was in hell. His face kept getting bigger and redder, and he insisted that we knew each other, and my friend began to dance on her seat and cry, with the eggplant still on her face getting red sauce everywhere.