Oh, Beloved Grand Luxe.

I don’t mean to alarm you.  But the Grand Luxe Cafe has closed.   Quite seemingly, for good.

I know. I know.  Take a moment.

They made no farewell, no goodbye (and I seriously think they could have made a good bit of revenue on a giant farewell tour).  Just a sign on the door that says, “Thank you for your years of patronage.  The Grand Luxe Cafe has closed its doors.  Feel free to enjoy The Cheesecake Factory.”

I shall do no such thing.  With all due respect to The Cheesecake Factory, she is not The Grand Luxe.

This is like getting a letter to end a long distance romance, where we’ve only seen each other every few weeks, but our meals together were pure, sweet, luxurious, and rich with conversation and memories.  And now I get this letter that says, “I’m out, but feel free to date my cousin.  He lives closer to you anyway.”

I shall date no cousin of the one I love.  I shall not.

They even refer to themselves as “the Colorado location.”   As if that’s how I’ve addressed my Christmas cards.

Oh, Asian Nachos, how have you forsaken me?  I feel like you’ve gone to heaven.

(Speaking of which, I sincerely hope there are Asian Nachos in heaven.  Robb, submit a memo about that, please.)

So much for dinners with girlfriends,
Christmas Eve with my family,
New Year’s Eve with a crowd,
New Year’s Eve on our own,
Mother’s Day,
My birthday,
Evenings when I decided I deserved a date even if only by myself,
Reunions with long ago friends who have just stepped off the plane and into my city, into my life,
and they are hungry for the best goodness in the history of the world.

I’ll not even go into the fact that Robb took me there every time I could convince him to go again.  We were perfect bread partners: he loved the crusty outsides while I loved the chewy middles.  We each carved out our favorite part and set the other aside in a pile of marital affection.

But I won’t play the widow card right now.  That’s a low-blow, a dirty trick in the face of such loss.

Farewell, Grand Luxe.  I left my heart in your wineglass.