Culinary desire

This is a writing exercise that I didn't know what to with, except to post it here:

If I don't eat at the French Laundry my life would not be complete. But how to get there. I don't have a car. It's not near public transport. Nor do I have filthy lucre, I don't have a sugar daddy. The mechanics of the deal is simple. Ring up exactly 6-months to the day that you want to go, and book a table. Keep ringing and ringing until they pick up the phone. But it seems so far away, some undetermined time in the future, like some kind of spy-thriller novel, "Igor, I will meet you on the Steps of Rome, in 6 months time". It's a restaurant for god's sake, not state secrets of inner Siberia. Perhaps I can with Igor. I've got to go with someone. Someone, preferably, no necessarily, with a car. For that drive up to that place up in the middle of the country-side. People with cars, who like to eat. You know, maybe I should just advertise on Craigslist, and offer something in return.