"Huh," says my friend Ben as we gaze around the Grapevine Cafe. Translation: "I do believe that the only people at this restaurant younger than ourselves are the wait staff."
"Yep," I say back. Still, at 34, I have reached an age where I take a certain level of comfort in feeling young by comparison, so I happily settle into the bar with my friends to wait for our table. It will take about 20 minutes; we're hitting the place just a couple weeks after a mostly positive review in the Sun, and they're still dealing with a new rush of business.