hashtag rich guy goals

Lately I've thought of all the ways my life would change if I ever became a rich guy. Think of this as an action plan, if I ever got to act this way. It's sort of like becoming a prepper, it's just I'm prepping for opulence instead of post-apocalyptic annihilation.

I've come up with three things so far.

Number one is easy. Guac on everything. Yes, I would like to add avocado to my omelette. I'll take chips and guacamole as soon as I sit down anywhere serving it. Yes I know it's extra, but I'm fine with that. Always and forever going forward.

It'll be the first immediate switch that flips in my life. No hesitation, no delay, I want guac in everything and I'm going to order it that way. Every chef wants to offer it, but it costs a little more. With such low-level worries in my rearview mirror, I'll finally be ready to always say yes to extra fat and flavor from then on out.

Two. This might not be universal, but pebble ice is the best ice in drinks on planet earth and I want a personal ice maker in my house that makes perfect pebble ice on demand. I know this isn't that outlandish. I might have even tracked various sales on Amazon and remember a tabletop pebble ice maker once dropped to about $250 down from $600, but I still couldn't make myself pull the trigger. Two hundred and fifty dollars (on sale) just for ice? Are you kidding? What am I, some kind of rich guy?!

A real pebble ice maker fit for a bar or restaurant runs in the two to three thousand dollar range new. Trust me, I've looked. On eBay, you can find shuttered places selling off their pebble ice makers for less, often around $1500, sometimes as cheap as $900. But they're big, about the size of a hotel ice maker from the 1970s. As much as I love pebble ice, I can't justify that, but a tabletop maker? Someday, I hope to make one mine.

Third, and perhaps most indulgent on the lifestyle change list is buy the entire dessert menu, whenever the opportunity arises. Let me explain.

Often you're at a nice place and you had a good meal and you're asked if you're interested in dessert. I never know how to convey how very much interested I am in dessert, always. I love talking about it, thinking about it, and eating it. I think about it more than I think about steaks or appetizers or cocktails.

Every time I go out, near the end of the night I'm presented with an impossible quandary. Here are six things. Here are eight things. Here are five things. Almost all of them sound amazing, but most importantly for almost everyone: you may only choose one.

A bunch of years ago, I took a group of friends out for a special dinner and at the end we realized there were eight different desserts that sounded good and there were eight of us. And even though all eight people wanted a mix of 5 or 6 of the options I got to utter the most powerful words to our server I'd ever wielded inside a restaurant: "I'd like to order all the desserts. Yes. We'll take the entire dessert menu for the table."

Everyone got a bite of all eight things. And of course we all loved two or three things more than the rest and maybe one or two options were deemed unsuccessful, but it was the principle of the thing.

"I'll take one of everything, my good sir."

I've only been in two other situations in the last twenty years where it worked out that we had enough people to match the number of dessert menu items and I got to order the entire lot. And let me tell you I remember each one of those three meals and all the desserts entailed within each.

So, my new rule once I become a rich guy is when the dessert menu arrives I'll wave it away with a flourish of my wrist and I'll say "yeah, I'll have them all."

To be clear, I don't want to eat all of them—a bite of each is the perfect amount to figure out what works and doesn't and why. It would be tremendously wasteful but I'd finally get to leave no stone unturned at the end of any posh meal.

I'm so ready for this someday rich guy thing.