I went out for a business dinner with a client tonight; we needed to talk to him to get more details on a project, and as I haven’t met him in person before, this was also a good chance to build a bit of a relationship. At a restaurant on the 30th floor of a building in Bellevue.
It was quite mad for me. The place sold ten types of wagyu beef, alongside sushi, and the Japanese food somehow made me homesick for Singapore, and the ludicrous grill there, so big they’d delivered it to the restaurant by helicopter, kept cooking beef. I had already had my meat of the month but I made an exception tonight for olive-fed wagyu, which honestly felt no better than regular wagyu, and yes, I know what a ridiculous thing that is to complain about.
Still, the meal was a succrss; we talked through what we needed to, tried to establish some sort of relationship so everyone knows who everyone else is, and somehow plugged my airport carpet Instagram account. Then I hopped in a car and went home, where my dear wife was keeping the kids at bay. Or in check. Or something.