Thursday, July 2, 2009
nice try, snapping turtle of hell!
Dr. Krog and I fell into a bizarre sort of wormhole today. We were walking down Canton Street, because our current favorite pub was packed to the gills. And we saw a darling little restaurant with a shady awning, outdoor tables, and quaint brickwork bursting with pots of fresh flowers.
And we thought, "Oh, that looks nice!"
Much like a fish, seeing the tongue of a snapping turtle wriggling around like a delicious worm, says, "Oh, that looks nice!"
Right before his head pops off.
We sat down and looked at the menu. Every entree consisted of meat, covered in cream sauce, with an industrial scoop of potatoes and half a tree of broccoli. Seriously. I watched the waiters amble out the door, and they all carried the same thing. Dr. Krog had the Portobello Chicken, and I had the Sauced Wild Salmon, and we couldn't tell them apart until we cut into them.
We turned to the drink menu. Wine started at $9 a glass and rocketed upwards, which is pretty steep when the entrees are $14.95. No liquor whatsoever. Also, no bread. Which i've mostly given up, except when faced with bland salmon drowning in nondescript cream sauce, and then buttered bread starts to sound pretty uptown.
I know, i'm complaining again. But it was utterly ridiculous. We came to the conclusion that the restaurant stays in business only because its emptiness preys on people who don't like crowds. Fortunately, the date wasn't so much about finding the best food on the planet and watching each other's eyes roll back into our heads. It was about being alone, away from the kids, able to talk without interruption and watch people walk by and enjoy life to the fullest.
And after attempting to enjoy our entrees, we hightailed it across the street to our favorite porch swing on our favorite balcony to enjoy a lemon drop and a red velvet cupcake, which never disappoints.
After all, these days, a funny experience is worth more than a fabulous dinner. And I feel like I escaped some sort of Stephen King-esque giant alien monster whose mouth is probably the portal to hell but appears to be a simple ladies' room in a bad restaurant.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
And if you know Gordon Ramsay, please send him to Nine South and let him know that Old Roswell is dying for a cute little sushi joint, if you catch my drift.