As long established over the course of countless blogs, I am not a complainer by nature. Stalwart. Resolute. Forbearant. That's me. Easy-going. Unflappable. Compromising.
But I like what I like.
When I go out to eat, I like Laurie's in Warsaw ("Hi, Naomi and Dana! What's this? Lobster bisque!?!") and Ace's in Belfast ("Hi, Laci!" Virgil LOVED the sweet potato pancake!"). I will, occasionally, venture out of my comfort zone but will inevitably end up making unfair comparisons to my tried-and-trues.
Case-in-point, we were taking my beloved brother-in-law out for a special meal to commemorate this, his most recent, visit. "If we want it to be special, we should take him to Laurie's," I muttered but gamely accepted the challenge of discovering a new favorite restaurant. Sigh.
We walked into the nearly empty eatery and were told that there would be about a ten minute wait as they were preparing for a party. No problem...we settled in at the bar where a rather temperamental tapster begrudgingly filled our order. I watched four of the waitstaff wrestle a plastic tablecloth onto a table for ten which was surrounded by twenty empty tables. I sipped my mediocre margarita, not feeling like a valued customer, longing for Laurie's, where I was loved.
At last, we were brusquely led to our table. Knowing we were already on shaky ground, Brad agonized more over my meal selections than his own. He threw caution to the wind and ordered the spinach-artichoke dip to curtail my impulse of wrapping my hands tightly around Mr. Ten-Minute Wait's throat.
Clearly, I had lost mind of my senses. I ordered a salad. But it was the promised land of lettuce, laden with blueberries, pomegranate pellets, sunflower seeds, assorted nuts, and topped with mandarin oranges. A blueberry vinaigrette river would then wind its way through this wonderland of wilted greens.
The masterpiece arrived and I frowned. "What's wrong?" Brad asked. What could POSSIBLY be wrong with a salad? "I thought they meant fresh blueberries," I said dismally, pushing the dehydrated bl-aisins around on my plate. "Weren't there supposed to be mandarin oranges in your salad?" my brother-in-law asked. Brad glared at him. We were tilting precariously on a precipice and who knew what would nudge me over?
These were desperate times. "Would you like a rootbeer float?" my husband asked me. I brightened, forgetting for one second that I lived in a world that embraced bl-aisins. "She'd like a rootbeer float, please" Brad told our server. "Throw a shot of bourbon in there," Virgil added, now aware of the volatile conditions in our corner. "That's five dollars extra," she informed us. Brad handed me a salty french fry doused in malt vinegar as I made a sudden move to stand while removing my hoops. "That's no problem," Brad assured her as she backed slowly away from our unstable table, "in fact...put in two shots.
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