My friend invited me to a fancy steakhouse downtown—the kind with dim lighting, heavy silverware, and menus that don’t list prices because they assume you’re not afraid of them.

Before we even went, I was clear. I told her I couldn’t drop $200 on dinner and that if I came, I’d keep it light. She laughed it off and said, “Of course. No problem at all.”

I believed her.

The moment we sat down, I knew this night wasn’t going to be what she promised. She ordered like it was a celebration—one of the largest steaks on the menu, cooked medium-rare, plus three sides: truffle mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, and grilled asparagus. She added a glass of wine without even glancing at the price.

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