Pollsters tell us that Americans mistrust the “coastal elites,” defined I suppose as rich, educated liberals on the West and East coasts who enjoy dirty martinis at lunch and fois gras for dinner. If you struggle to make ends meet after a day working at a warehouse in Trump Country, it’s not surprising that you would have little sympathy for a financial guy in New York or a tech entrepreneur in San Jose upset that he can’t readily find a charging station for his new Tesla.

Obviously, the view is constructed from stereotypes. The vast majority of coastal residents pull up their britches every morning the same way we do in Utah.  The average coastal worker does not worry about the availability of eggs Benedict and French wine mustard; like fellow Americans, he or she sees a visit to an Olive Garden as an extravagance, and clips coupons for Wendy’s biggie meals.

But then a news story pops up, making the case for Middle America to scorn the urban elites.  An Associated Press article covered a new restaurant in San Francisco. It is named Dogue (rhymes with vogue) and caters to wealthy Bay Area customers who wish to treat their dogs.

Yes, their dogs. Man’s best friend. A species who poops on the grass and wags its tail when it sees its owner approach with a leash.

A classically-trained chef left his fine-dining restaurant job to open up Dogue – and Lassie would be impressed. For $75, a dog will receive a multi-course “bone appetite” featuring dishes like chicken skin waffles and filet mignon steak tartare with a quail egg.

Who knew that dogs would appreciate a quail egg. In my simple mind, toss an elk bone to a spaniel and you have a friend for life.

I guess I never understood that dogs cared about four-star dining. I never saw a German Shepherd sniff at his food dish and walk away if the meal wasn’t organic.  Similarly, I never saw a Golden doodle refuse to lap at its water dish until the owner filled it with crushed ice.

Then again, I never knew a woman named Gledy Espinoza who brought her 11-year-old miniature dachshund to Dogue for a puppy birthday party.  “I wanted to celebrate him,” she told the reporter. “Mason is so special to me. He’s my four-legged child and this is the perfect place to do a really nice celebration.”

After Mason enjoyed a bowl of mushroom soup with slices of chicken breast, Gledy said, “We’re foodies. I guess he is too, now.”

Sorry Gledy, but Mason is a dog – I don’t care how many bowls of mushroom soup he devours.  He’s just a dog fortunate enough to be pampered by an owner who hopefully has a feel for those who also live in her community. I was in San Francisco earlier this year. I didn’t see dogs asking their owners for the appetizer menu. What I did see were hoards of homeless men and women, unable to afford multi-million dollar condominiums, men and women who had never eaten a caper or a truffle, men and women searching in trash cans outside a downtown Burger King.

Oh, I forgot…the $75 per puppy dinner at the Dogue also includes a treat for human owners like Gledy: an alcoholic mimosa and a fancy baked good. Mason wouldn’t want his owner to starve. 

Bryan Gray, a long-time Davis County resident, is a former school teacher and has been a columnist for more than 26 years in newspapers along the Wasatch Front. λ