We waited for 45 minutes, and during that time I noticed that a) I was the only under-50 rocking glasses and b) my chest-zone was neither big nor uncovered enough to blend with the Friday night crowd and c) too many people were ordering salads. Oh, Scottsdale.
I protested by drinkin' a boozy bourbon mix drink and eating my weight in pretzel (both in fondue and sandwich-bun form).
And, despite my geriatric eyewear and comparably lacking lady lumps, one of the sweetie boys working there gave us a custardy caramely dessert with popcorn on top, which my friend generous pretended to share when, in actuality, she watched me ninja my spoon through more than 70% of it.
Good thing he couldn't see my post-pretzel food baby. I doubt he would have bothered being charming at all.