It's Mama's birthday and we went to the New Yorker for dinner.
The New Yorker sits below street level, hidden in the streets of Salt Lake which only adds to it's air of exclusivity. The inside invokes the glamour of the 1930's. Officers in dress uniform were tucked into the corners, and judges shook hands importantly with my father. As I daintily dab the sauce from the corners of my lips the Governor leaves with his family.
I think I've underestimated my father.