Everyone knows that rock stars live the good life. We've been pursuing sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll ever since 6th grade, when "Sixteen Stone" came out and we thought headbanging and Gavin Rossdale were badass. And when Prince goes out for dinner, it's pretty safe to say that he's not ordering doller pancakes at Denny's.
But for us, the little people, parent's week is over, and that Wharton MBA you've been golddigging is turning all women's lib on you and thinks going Dutch is cute and progressive. And since you are not in fact a rock star -- (the only rocking out you do is airguitaring "Tripping Billies") -- the chances that you'll be having fois gras for dinner are probably pretty slim.
Enter the bar menu: the poseur's ticket to fine dining. You can walk the walk and talk the talk, and no one has to know that you paid next to nothing to eat like the rich and famous. We're totally fine with faking it. Let's be real, here -- image is everything.
