Glynn Moore

News editor and local columnist for The Augusta Chronicle.

What's a $50,000 dinner like, anyway?

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We were at a fundraising dinner for our presidential candidate, and I was disappointed with my salad.

“You’d think that for $50,000 a plate, we’d get more than just some iceberg lettuce and what appears to be a sliver of red cabbage,” I complained.

“You can have mine,” my wife said. “I’m not a big fan of lettuce.”

“Thanks, but that would be just more lettuce,” I said. “For this kind of money, there should at least be romaine.”

“Just leave it alone then,” she said. “We paid to support the candidate, so suffer through the meal.”

I glanced around the huge room filled with other campaign donors.

“Yeah,” I said, “but you’d think with the turnout they had, they’d have raised enough cash to feed us a cherry tomato or two. And is an olive too much to ask?”

“Shhhhh,” she said. “Every­one else seems to be eating their salad.”

“But they’re probably used to the political circuit. We had to put off paying our cable television bill this month just to afford these meals.”

The waiter showed up and replaced our salad plates with the main course.

“Uh, what is this?” I asked.

“That is the chicken thigh, sir.”

“Chicken? I didn’t order chicken.”

“We ran out of the steak, sir.”

“You ran out? Anytime I’m paying $50,000, you can run out and buy one from the supermarket, for all I care. Anyway, you brought my wife steak.”

“That was the last one, sir. The chicken is very good, I am told.”

“I’m fairly sure it’s not $50,000 good, though. I eat chicken five times a week at home, so why would I want the same thing when I’ve coughed up all this campaign money?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“And another thing, that looks like a sirloin on my wife’s plate. Sirloin, at these prices? I’d expect at least a rib-eye. Not that I got one; I got chicken.”

“Shhhh. He’s just doing his job,” my wife whispered.

The waiter wasn’t paying attention anyway.

“Shall I go ahead and bring out your desserts?”

“I could certainly go for some cheesecake,” I said, pushing my chicken away.

“Cheesecake would be nice,” my wife said, chewing her steak.

The waiter had other ideas:

“I was hoping you left room for Jell-O.”


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