This is a Long Way from Sizzlin’ Sirloin

It was absolutely the fanciest restaurant I ever visited.

This was where small town met big city. While the Hick from Hooterville was the guest of Great Gatsby, the Godfather dined with the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

This was a long way from Sizzlin’ Sirloin.

I was a small town somewhat sheltered youth adjusting to my first year of college in a large city, twelve-hundred miles from home.

A prominent alumni football booster offered to treat my friend and me to dinner. He gave us the name of a restaurant, an address, and a time to meet him. We rode the subway from Cambridge to Boston’s North End, known as Little Italy. We exited at Haymarket Station and walked several blocks in the misty darkness.

We arrived at the anticipated spot. No restaurant marquee. No parking lot. No address numbers on the buildings. No people!

Can you sense our confusion? Our concern?

We did not have a Google map for directions. There was no Siri voice announcing we had arrived at our destination. We were in a section of the greater metropolis where we had never been. The dark buildings looked like warehouses.

It was raining. Pitch dark. No streetlights. No traffic.

We certainly were lost, but this was the address. We walked the block back and forth three times.

There was a small, green-shaded lamp above a large nondescript wooden door. No sign. No outside menu. No windows. Nothing extraordinary. It felt as if this were a set-up scene for a black-and-white noir film.

The lamp glowed softly, casting a halo over the unmarked door like a secret handshake was required for entrance. I hesitated, half-expecting a pair of muscle-bound goons to materialize from the shadows for the shake-down.

The appearance was very mysterious, and the atmosphere was a little frightening. It felt as if a knock on the wrong door could get you into trouble, terrible trouble.

I could hear the Music Man singing, “Well, my friends, we’ve got trouble, right here in River City! Trouble with a capital ‘T’ and that rhymes with “P’ and that stands for Pool. Oh, we’ve got trouble, terrible trouble.”

Green door, what’s that secret you’re keeping?

With my friend nodding in agreement, I finally gained enough courage to try the door. I rapped on the entrance twice. The door opened a crack, and a man dressed in a tuxedo nodded for us to come inside. No password was needed, just lots of nerve.

It was as if we had stepped into a movie. This was not Luby’s Cafeteria or the Waffle House.

The sounds of orchestra music flooded the room. Beautiful ivory columns supported the high ceiling with its large crystal chandeliers. This was a fancy elaborately decorated restaurant filled with guests enjoying food, conversation, and dancing.

Great Gatsby! I was in awe. Extravagance. Elegance.

Strangely, my first thought was this place is owned by the Mafia.

I am not sure where that thought originated because this event occurred before The Godfather movies and The Great Gatsby. The previous week I watched Clint Eastwood star in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. This might have been a gathering of all those groups.

We were immediately escorted to our host’s table by a pretty woman in a long flowing gown. She was not adorned with bunny ears or fluffy tail accessories. My momma warned me to stay away from those kinds of places.

I was surrounded by affluent people enjoying the luxurious environment and exquisite cuisine their wealth afforded them. Where did all these people come from? Back home, our big spenders drank coffee at Jack Briley’s bus stop.

My mother made certain I had proper attire. She and Dad were still making monthly payments on the Ivy-League blazer and the rest of my college wardrobe. I appreciated their sacrifice. Perhaps, the Tahona and Fairview natives worried too much about metropolitan fashion options.

Note: I discovered authentic fashion expertise during those college days. The pretenders and social climbers sought to impress with expensive clothing from the hottest fashion labels. The truly rich and famous wore comfortable sweatshirts, jeans, and tennis shoes. Mom would always gasp whenever I used that explanation for my clothing choices.

“Always act as well as you look” was her motherly mantra. “Impossible” was her son’s reply, accompanied with a smile and hug.

It was not as if I was totally unprepared for the occasion. I was not a complete stranger to fine dining.

There was a Sizzlin’ Sirloin in our nearby city …and I enjoyed chicken fried steak at Pete’s Sunset Corner Café each Friday before the big game.

I even had a semester of high school Home Ec class where we were taught some of the basics of etiquette…napkin in the lap, salad fork to the left, sharp knife on the right.

I might be a hick from the sticks, but I was no country bumpkin’.

This was a Classy Place. This was a Taste of Elegance.

Meticulous attention to detail was given to the table settings and presentation of each dish, creating a sense of luxury and sophistication. Fine china, crystal glasses, crisp linens, and polished silverware adorned the tables.

There were more forks than on the Walmart culinary aisle. Elaborate centerpieces featuring fresh flowers, candelabras, and ornate decorations added to the overall ambiance of the setting. I did notice the absence of neon beer signs on the wall. How classy was this place?

Impeccable service was provided by a team of professional wait staff, ensuring that each guest was treated as royalty.

A well-dressed man suddenly appeared asking how he could serve me. He stood there in silence as I struggled for the proper words. I guess that is why he is called a ‘waiter.’

I wish I could have stopped the slow-motioned muttering words that escaped my mouth as I asked if they served pepperoni pizza.

The waiter did not blink. He responded he was there for my drink order. I said I would just take a glass of water.

Suddenly, it felt as if the waiter transformed into a huge blitzing linebacker about to sack this quarterback. I did the one thing the passer should never do. I panicked. My anxiety got the best of me as I fumbled my unnecessary explanation. I replied, “I am Baptist, not Catholic.”

The whole table crew stared in hushed silence as if waiting on a replay ruling.

The waiter smiled and pointed to the glass of water directly in front of me. I had to crawl up from under the table to see it.

One guest sought to ease the tension by announcing we were dining at a three-star Michelin restaurant…”with no religious discrimination.” Awkward laughter.

Thankfully, I did not upstage my host by telling him my hometown friend drove a car with four Michelin tires. At least this eatery sounded like top-of-the-line stuff and not a low-end General Dollar fast-food stop.

I made a vow that night. Less talking. My sweet wife wonders why I share so little conversation at the dinner table. I still bear the scars! Every time someone asks me what I want to drink, my PTSD anxiety kicks in.

To this day, my Catholic college roommate always responds to any waiter’s drink requests with the information that I am a Baptist. Funny man!

The decorative opulence of this Mafia syndicate’s establishment left my mouth wide-open in awe. That was good because the Top Chef culinary menu awaited. Our host insisted we try everything on the menu.

The alumni booster asked me, “Have you ever heard of Saltimbocca alla Romana? The translation means “jump in the mouth from Rome.”

I replied with my own question, “Have you ever heard of Spiro?”

He responded with, “Carpaccio?”

I corrected him, “No, near Ft. Smith.”

My Sherlock Holmes investigation of the menu found familiarity in a few items. I assumed Chicken Cordon Bleu had chicken in it, although I was a little concerned about eating blue chicken. Perhaps the Shrimp Diablo had a popcorn shrimp version.

I recognized the first part of Filet Mignon Lilliputian. At least I knew not to pronounce it fill-it mig-non. I think Lilliputian was a hockey player for the Boston Bruins. I never heard of Canapés of Foie Gras, but my grandfather had a garage canopy which covered his lawn mower.

Oysters Rockefeller was off the table. I wanted nothing to do with slimy rich food. Asparagus with Hollandaise sauce almost made me gag thinking of my grandmother forcing me to eat spinach.

And what in Bulldog Land are Truffles?

Our host ordered for us as he rattled off his requests. Let the adventure begin!

First came my New England initiation ritual, cracking open a Maine lobster.

The waiter placed a bib around my neck. I think I was two the last time I needed one. Oh, I needed one and so did the people next to me who did not order the lobster that sprayed their table.

There it was. This experience would be memorable. I stared at the bright reddish-orange beast staring back at me with its giant claws outstretched as if challenging me to a duel.

My host and his other guests snapped open a claw, extracting perfect white meat. They were experts at this. Several demonstrated the proper technique to me. I was unsure if this crustacean might crawl away in laughter.

I picked up the lobster cracker which looked suspiciously like a medieval torture device. I tried to break the claw. It was embarrassing. My cracker (the silver metal one, not the salad garnishment) slipped. I pinched my own finger.

My scream was drowned out by the outburst of laughter. Having people laugh at me in public has always been one of my favorite experiences. Not!

This was no time to admit defeat. I was after de-claw. I repositioned the cracker, squeezed, and—crack!—lobster juice shot across the nearby table, narrowly missing the elderly woman’s pearl necklace.

She arched her eyebrow as she reached for her napkin. I grinned and muttered, “Sorry. First time. “

The next cracking attempt successfully freed a big piece of white meat. Unfortunately, it and the remaining portion of the claw were launched into the chest of my buddy in the midst of his own tormented battle. It exploded like a rocket. One piece of shell adorned the nearby water glass.

I was definitely indecisive about the worth of this mis-adventure.

Then came the “Eureka” moment. With the reverence of Indiana Jones discovering the Holy Grail, I dipped a morsel of lobster meat into the melted butter. Wow! Oh, the sweetness of Victory!

Just the beginning of the meal took thirty minutes and four napkins…not counting the extra ones needed by the people around me.

Surrounded by shattered shell and butter stains, I sat there as happy as a Hick in Hooterville could be.

[Full disclosure for trivia buffs and younger folk: Hooterville is located near Green Acres, Petticoat Junction, and the original mountain home of the Beverly Hillbillies where Jed Clampett shot up some bubblin’ crude. Oil that is, black gold, Texas tea.]

The food frenzy had just begun.

The food was exquisite—the flavor explosion included handmade pasta with truffle, succulent lobster risotto, steak so tender it nearly melted. The vegetables were arranged in a swirl and the sauce looked as if it had been painted on with a makeup brush. I was unsure whether it was food or decoration.

The first dessert arrived in clouds of sweet smoke. I witnessed my dad’s grill burst in flames for some well-done burgers, but never a dessert. This was intriguing.

I am positive I heard the Godfather’s Don Corleone whisper, “I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

Well, I did not refuse the Tiramisù dessert made with layers of mascarpone cheese, coffee-soaked ladyfingers, and cocoa powder. I did not refuse the Cannoli or the Gelato. Then our host offered Panna Cotta. How could I refuse?

Some of you are thinking there is no way anyone could eat that much. It was no problem for a nineteen-year-old guy on an extremely limited budget. I hoped the host did not see me stuffing two Cannoli in my pocket for a late-night snack.

I sat there stuffed like an old Bulldog ready for a nap.

As the two fattened (mixed metaphor) pigs stumbled out of the mysterious Mafia hideaway, we wondered if we would ever find the place again—or ever be able to afford it.

The answer is ‘No’ and ‘No.’ Sometimes, I think it was a dream.

To this day, I cannot tell you the name of the restaurant or where it is located.

However, I do know about the Door that leads to the ultimate feast more abundant and pleasurable beyond anything you might ever ask, think, or imagine.

The Great Benefactor God has extended a personal invitation for you to join in His heavenly feast (Isaiah 25:6). The family reunion and fellowship will be out of this world in its goodness and duration. Immeasurably limitless and infinitely endless.

The joyful celebration will extend through countless ages. Each banquet course will exceed the previous ones in pleasure and praise. Each moment perfect. But our capacity to enjoy each perfect moment will forever expand exponentially.

The book of Revelation echoes this promise: “Blessed are those who are invited to the marriage supper of the Lamb” (Revelation 19:9). This final forever feast is not just about food, but about restored relationships, eternal joy, and the fulfillment of God’s promises.

We will live and love in constant awe! Every hunger-physically, emotionally, spiritually—will be satisfied. Every bite of eternity will thrill the soul with amazement of its goodness.

You have a written invitation. Where do you go? Jesus told Thomas and all who ask, I am the Way (John 14:6) … I am the Door” (John 10:9).

Jesus used the Door metaphor as the access to the kingdom of God with love, beauty, and goodness far beyond anything we experience in the Sizzlin’ Sirloins of this materialistic world. This Door is the only gateway to spiritual fulfillment and eternal life. This is the timeless truth…There is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved (Acts 4:12). Jesus is the Door to an incredible endless future.

Jesus often spoke about the image of a feast to describe the Kingdom of God. In parables, He told of kings inviting guests to wedding banquets (Matthew 22:1-14) and prodigal sons welcomed home to joyful meals (Luke 15:11-32). At the Last Supper, Jesus looked forward to the day He would eat and drink anew with His followers in His Father’s kingdom (Matthew 26:29).

Look for the Lamp of Love and Hope hanging on the cross. It points to the Door. Jesus is the entry point to a relationship with God and a permanent seat at the big banquet table.

This life is not about secret codes, rituals, or exclusive clubs—It is about faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Through Him, we find forgiveness, belonging, and purpose. An everlasting feast of family fellowship and unimaginable goodness.

And the greater news about the good news? It is not a dream! It is not a movie! We never have to leave!

The foretaste begins here and now. Surely God’s goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life…(Here is the drop the mic moment)…and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever!

BE BLESSED!

There is a prepared place and a planned time when God Himself will turn your hope into an everlasting celebration of a future where love has no limits and joy has no end.

EYES UP! LOVE YOU!