Time certainly can change how we think about a situation – even a minor one. The phenomenon struck me recently when I remembered Janet’s.

In the small Ohio city where I used to live, Janet’s was the place to go for classy, fine dining. Janet had converted a small house on North Main Street into a restaurant that bore her name. Inside were several softly lit tables covered with white linen where customers could order from a menu equally elegant.

I don’t know anything about what Janet did before that, but she played the role of owner with the savoir faire of a restaurateur on San Francisco’s Nob Hill. She always came by our table to say hello and to talk about that evening’s cuisine, though we were unknown and infrequent customers. She arrived beside us impeccably dressed in a dark business ensemble and spoke with regal deportment.

It was probably on my birthday in the early 2000s when my penchant for thriftiness broke down and I ordered the prime rib. No doubt my husband and I told our two daughters, who were dining with us, about the unforgettable prime rib dinner we had eaten on my birthday in California some 30 years earlier. The meat, divinely tender and juicy, was an inch thick and covered most of the plate – at least as we remembered it – and the dinner price was five dollars.

Despite the much higher price that night in Ohio, the four of us eventually had plates of prime rib set in front of us. I don’t remember how big the slices were, but I do remember the enormous band of fat around the outer edge. What exactly was wrong with the meat itself I can’t quite recall, but I do know that it was the worst piece of prime rib I could imagine. Since we preferred not to complain, we ate it anyway.

It wasn’t unusual to be somewhat disappointed in the food at Janet’s. We tended to dine there more for the ambience and the menu than for the food itself. But after the prime rib debacle, we never returned.

Years have passed since I thought about our last dinner at Janet’s. She came to mind recently, however, when I was pondering how I might boost the quality of my own cuisine. Had she seen the plates of prime rib served that night? Was she horrified, and if so, what could she have done? Approached us with her usual aplomb and said, “I’m so sorry, we need to serve you something else from the menu at our own cost”? As for what she might have said to her supplier, I can only speculate. Maybe she wasn’t one to complain either. Maybe a tiny restaurant in a small city had few options.

Janet was older than my husband and I were, so I suspect she retired some years ago. I hope she sold her restaurant before one of the city’s three biggest employers moved away. Mostly I hope she was able to let go of all the headaches of restaurant ownership and thoroughly enjoy her freedom. I like to imagine her with the wind on her face as she sails her own boat on Lake Erie.

No, that’s not the American dream. But I’ve known people from Ohio who think that would be heaven.