Photo by LaTur.

Dear Restaurant Week,

I am breaking up with you. For real this time. Not like that time last August where I said we were through, and then I went out to lunch at Oyamel anyway. This time, it’s serious.

Don’t get me wrong—things started out great between us. At first, I fell hard. I would hang out with you five nights a week, straining my salary and youthful waistline. Sometimes, I would even agree to reservations as late as 9 p.m., just so I could get a mouthful of Corduroy’s soft shell crab or stab my fork into a luxurious slice of Vidalia’s lemon chess pie. Eating at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday! Who does that? Europeans, that’s who, I smugly thought to myself as I tucked into a plate of calf’s liver at Poste. You were exotic—dangerous even!—and I loved it.

But a disappointing meal at Taberna Alabardero left me questioning your motives. Sure, my lunch was only $20, but it hardly seemed worth it for some gazpacho, a sad sliver of fish with four anemic green beans, and a scoop of sorbet. Could the rumors be true? Could you really just be a gimmick used to trap unsuspecting diners into eating inferior meals while Congress was on recess?

I told myself I would be more careful. Things were moving too fast between us. No more week-long benders, I vowed. I started setting boundaries. First, it was just dinners at the tried-and-true spots that offered a full menu, but hanging out with you was getting expensive. And fattening. So I started rationalizing. Sure, I’d tell myself, dinner isn’t that good of a deal when you actually do the math, but who can knock getting a free dessert? As my waistline started to expand, it occurred to me that, while dessert might be free, new pants are not. I tried to put more distance between us. Just lunch, I proclaimed. It was the better value, anyway, I told my friends, apologizing profusely for turning down their invitations to dinner.

And then there were the indiscretions. Suddenly, D.C. wasn’t good enough for you anymore. People were telling me that they had seen you hanging around the suburbs. I forgave you for Bethesda Restaurant Week, but Shirlington Restaurant Week? Really? That’s a bridge too far. That bitch doesn’t even have a Metro stop.

Back in 2006, when small plates felt thrilling and a decent mid-priced meal was a veritable unicorn, you seemed like a dream come true. But as I got to know you better, I started to secretly hate you. I wanted to leave you, but we’d become so close. And all my friends loved you! Eventually, I came to dread January and August, knowing I’d have to make excuses to hide our dysfunctional relationship from them.

People change. And cities change. But your list of participating restaurants and prices have stayed almost identical from when we first bumped into each other on the OpenTable website.

Restaurant Week, it’s not that you’re necessarily a bad promotion—you help stimulate the city’s economy, and, as a District taxpayer, I appreciate that about you. As for the charge that you attract amatuerish diners and noobs? Look, everybody has to start somewhere and I’m sure you’re going to make someone very happy someday. You know, it could be the start of a beautiful relationship. For them, I mean. But not for me. I’m officially done, Restaurant Week. Except for that lunch at Vidalia on Friday.

Hungry and out of love,

Alicia Mazzara

P.S.—I want my signed José Andrés poster back.