Samba Dancing from bad to really good.

Well, I must admit, the night got off on a rocky start:

Tickets in hand, we are guided through the dense crowd, past the bar,  darkness with only the stage lights to highlight everyone’s face while the band played bossa nova. We walk up stairs to the Mezzanine behind our usher.

The three of us are sat at table with another couple. We are actually at a bar table over looking the stage. Nice seats, I just can’t move my arms to even pick up a drink because I’ll hit the arm of the guy next to me. My friend is practially sitting sideways, using the edge of the bar for a table.  The crowd upstairs is sparse.

We wait well into 5 minutes for the waitress to even acknowledge us. She eventually does, because I walked to her to ask about the buffet.  She brings us plates immediately and tells us she’ll get our drink orders when we get back.

No food in the buffet. Of the seven hot stations, two cold stations set up, and the two meat carving stations,  the only thing that has not been picked clean is the white and Brazilian rice and the sweet bananas. I can’t do anymore carbs.

Staff response, “We only have two people refreashing food and I don’t know where the other guy is.” “We’ll refresh the buffet soon. ”

I stand with my plate in my hand staring at the staff, thinking: “Did I really just pay $24 for this?”

Buffet gets refreshed. Thank God. I fill up on coconut chicken, hummus and pita, sweet bananas, and a bit of salad.

Returning with my food, I literally have to maneuver myself in between two other people and then hop on to the bar stool. I’m still too far away from the table for me to really enjoy my dinner.  I can’t get any closer.  I now don’t have silverware. I hunt down the waitress again.

She finally places the silverware on the table, but the cloth is black and the table is black and the only mood lighting at the table is  a tea light right in front of me. I can’t see my silverware, I can’t even see my food. I’m now hanging over my plate desperate to not let anything drip.

20 minutes later, the waitress asks us for drinks. Lord knows how long it’ll take her. I passed on the offer.

I finish my meal. Someone, other than my waitress, offers to take my plate from me.

At least someone is paying attention.

The band played on.

How does Bossa Nova all sound the same? Am I out of the age bracket? I think of coffee and the sweet bananas. Waitress is currently fawning over the couple next to us, I have to shout to get here to order me some coffee.  I jump down from my seat, push it straight back to keep from hitting my table mates. I head down stairs, sweet bananas have there own plates! Great.

The band session ends and we receive the check.

With an 18% gratuity.

What?

Upon asking about said “gratuity” was told,  (with no eye contact, rushed response, and exacerbated) “I don’t have time to deal with this with you. Do you want a manager”

“Yes. That would be great.”

Mark time: 9:15pm

Then a light from above came, and his name was Ryan Starr, Manager.

Mark time: 9:30  (the best service she gave us all night.)

Ryan, rocked our world upon hearing our story of the night.

Tab: Taken care of. Ryan grabs it from us.

Concert: Next one is on the house, just call!

The French are beside themselves.

Waitress comes over, “Did Ryan help you out?” “Yes.” She looks for the check.  Nice try.

After an hour and half wait and a few pictures of us fighting over a package of gum, we head into the main room for the show. And what a show it was!

Opening the second set was a drum line, from outside the noise increased and the line, it’s self came within 5 feet of me.

The dancers led the line.

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They danced. We got awesome masks.

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I think I’m meant to be a Vegas girl, I really do! I love the feathers and sequins. There nothing wrong with that. At. All.

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