When you hear the words “restaurant proposal” you probably picture something classic like a waiter bringing over a glass of champagne with the ring at the bottom, or perhaps even the ring being baked into an elegant crème brûlée. Not me. The restaurant proposal of my dreams includes going to Benihana and catching that ring in my mouth like a goddamn performance seal, followed of course by 18 pieces of shrimp.
I have been dropping not-so-subtle hints to my boyfriend for the past year, but I fear he still hasn’t gotten it.
Just last week, he mentioned something about how beautiful and intimate private proposals are. Umm, no? When I get proposed to, I want it to be in front of 10 to 15 bib-clad strangers who all cheer for me as I open my mouth wide for a (hopefully) ginormous diamond flipped off the end of the chef’s spatula. And then the chef and I share the quiet smile of two performers who know they have their audience wrapped around their fingers. A private proposal could never bring me that kind of euphoria. Plus, I need someone who’s CPR-certified to be there just in case things go wrong.
I have had some of my greatest moments while seated grill-side at Benihana: third grade birthday party, sophomore year homecoming, right before my parents got divorced, that one time I went alone – it only makes sense that I get proposed to there as well. If I’m being honest, I feel most alive when I have a hunk of meat slathered in hot oil flying at my face. Why would I want my proposal to be anywhere but where I feel most alive?
Basically, in a perfect world, my proposal would go: piece of chicken, piece of shrimp, bowl of friend rice, another piece of chicken, my engagement ring, then another piece of shrimp. Anything straying from that would not only be a letdown, it would be a deal-breaker.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my boyfriend. But, at the end of the day, I love Benihana more. And he should know that. I wouldn’t get married to someone who didn’t know that.
