Hubby and I venture into un-chartered areas of town on weekends. We do this for fun, just to see what adventure lies beyond our particular realm of suburb-dom. In doing so, we found much ritzier shops, and an incredibly mind blowing grocery store. Oh, excuse me. I meant food market.
The fact that only the rich shop there should have been apparent to us. We should have received the tip off from the four Lexus SUV's in the front row of the parking lot. But nope. Instead we parked our gas conserving used vehicle between a BMW 74 M Coupe and Mercedes ML350 and wandered inside in happy oblivion.
We stopped short just inside the door, our line-of-sight overwhelmed with glorious bins of fruit and candy. We stumbled down isles of gourmet sauces and imported condiments. In a haze, I made my way to the back of the store where the pastries rested behind sparkling glass cases.
A kindly pastry chef (complete with starched white hat) smiled pleasantly and asked if I would like to sample their 'truffle of the week.' I heard a heavenly choir erupt directly above my head (in hind site I realize it was the special satellite radio station for their store, as opposed to the mind-numbing elevatoresque renditions of We All Live In a Yellow Submarine that blare through the isles of my neighborhood Kroger).
As I stuffed the truffle into my mouth, whilst simultaneously licking chocolate off my fingers, I mumbled and gestured to a case of fruit tarts like an idiot. The pastry chef smiled patiently and put the largest one in a to-go container and sent me on my merry way.
I found Matt toward the front of the store (he got waylaid in the Italian sauces isle) and we proceeded to check out. We filed in line behind a couple about our age. She wore a fabulous black and white print BCBC halter dress (I know this for a fact b/c only a week before I accidentally drooled on one and a sales person shooed me out of the store). He was wearing perfectly creased khaki pants and looked, well, very wealthy.
She turned and smiled at me, her white teeth momentarily blinding me and said, "I love your purse."
Matt rolled his eyes sideways and suppressed a smirk. But I didn't care. I was in the land of the rich; the land of to-go fruit tarts, $16 jars of sauce and designer dresses. There was no way in hades I was going to say, "Uh, thanks. I bartered for it in a backroom of Chinatown for $25."
Nope, I just smiled back and said, "Thanks."