Stavros and I had a truly incendiary evening yesterday. It was a beautiful afternoon, and since Stavros’s plans were unexpectedly canceled, we decided to grill. Earlier in the day, I had been to the very expensive Plum Market where I purchased a pound of hot Italian chicken sausage and some corn on the cob, and Stavros loves hot dogs, so I figured I’d make a side of pasta and we’d have a genuine smorgasbord. (“Smorgasbord” is French for “full stomach.”)
We had a preprandial cocktail on the patio and tossed out a box of Carr’s Water Crackers to the squirrels, who had to then run around and dig up chunks of buried brie—a chore but worth it—and chatted about our respective days at work. Stavros is a busy manager for a highly-regarded showbiz firm, and I provide online content for some of America’s leading retailers of GDP-type items. Stavros, all in black, did not even glisten in the early-evening sun as he described his day. I remarked that we would likely soon run out of propane, and with that gripping observation, I turned on the grill and we went into the house to prepare the meat and corn.
I unwrapped the sausage while Stavros took his hot dogs from the freezer and lay them on a plate. I had high hopes for these sausages. Not only did I expect them to be good, I demanded it. My trip to Plum Market had put me in a rotten mood because it wound up being horrifically expensive and so far, not worth it. I originally meant to get lunch—I woke up wanting salad from a salad bar. Perhaps unwise in the season of Swine Flu, but that’s what I wanted and I had had a vague memory of Plum Market having a superior salad bar. So at lunch I drove down to ritzytown and was seduced into buying a few additional things by the subliminal messages in the muzak, among them, these grossly overpriced sausages. The salad bar turned out to be about one thin hair (I was going to say “pussy” instead of thin) better than the one in my cafeteria at work, and the potato chips were revolting—I think they had sugar on them—and cost $1.79, I realized once back at work. So I felt consummately gypped by the entire experience and pinned my salvation on these hot Italian chicken sausages. If they were good, the trip and expense would have been worth it. Capice?
I put the corn and the sausage on the grill and came back inside to make the pasta. Stavros assisted by way of attempting to make out with me constantly. As I filled the coffee pot and set the timer for this morning, I glanced out the kitchen window at the grill, from which huge, poisonous-looking clouds of black smoke were suddenly billowing.
“STAVROS!” I cried, placing the coffee pot on the sideboard. “Look at the grill!”
We raced outside and I yelled, “What do I do?”
“Put the fire out!” yelled back Stavros.
“With the hose?” I asked, in keeping with my new habit of asking the dumbest possible questions.
Without waiting for an answer, I sprang like one of Charlie’s Angels and grabbed the hose, conveniently located apprx. six inches from the smoldering grill, and squatted in front of it, aiming the water into the drip pan, which was fully ablaze from a year’s worth of collected olive oil and assorted lard. I held down the trigger of the spray nozzle and crouched in front of the grill like Jacklyn Smith taking down a rogue pimp and finally the fire died down. I dropped the hose and reached under the grill to turn off the flow of propane from the tank while Stavros extended a delicate hand to turn off the ignition knob.
“Holy shit,” said I.
Stavros opened the grill. The hot Italian chicken sausages had been reduced to anthracite. The corn was still vaguely cornlike, but with a greasy, gray sheen and speckles of soot. Smoke rose in foul breaths and blackened the cobwebs and soffit vents under my eave.
I gotta say, I took this pretty hard. I almost never ruin dinner. Especially by way of a giant fire. Stavros was kind enough to remove the drip pan, which had finally been extinguished, and I dropped the charred remains of the sausage and corn into the garbage. Luckily, Stavros had grilled and removed his hot dogs prior to the fire, so all was not totally lost. Plus we still had the pasta. So I had some pasta, and Stavros had his hot dogs and pasta, and we decided to go for a walk and get an ice cream to make up for the tragic loss of 800 calories.
We live very near each other, Stavros and I, and thus we patronize the same party store. (For those of you not in the Detroit area, “party store” means “liquor store.” Not “balloons and streamers”; booze, etc.) I should also point out that I have lived in the neighborhood for about three times as long as Stavros, which is why what happened next was amusing.
We walked into the party store. I noticed that this evening’s clerks were the two older men, not the twenty-something sons of the proprietor. I approached the ice cream vault and heard, “Hi, Stavros.” I turned around in time to see Stavros raise his hand in a wave and reply, “Hey, Pete.”
Hey, Stavros? Hey, Pete? What’s going on here? Are these two pals on Facebook now or something? Stavros looked quite proud of himself as we wrapped up our purchase, and the minute we were outside I demanded, “How does he know your name!”
“I go there every day,” he said. “He sees my credit card. He started saying, ‘Thanks, Stavros,’ so I asked him his name.”
I didn’t quite buy this and I watched him with suspicion as I ate my Good Humor strawberry shortcake bar.
By the time we got home, there was no lingering smell of grease fire and the evening had somewhat redeemed itself by virtue of the ice cream and the discovery of a 1992 Ford High School yearbook lying the road.
I will not, however, be returning to Plum Market.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
DAVIN WHIPPLETHORPE ON CHINA"RUBELLA" RUBY
Being a huge fan of Amazing Chicken and a frequent take away customer, my friend Ruby and I decided it would be nice to get out and enjoy our dinner at the restaurant. It is usually half occupied when I get my take-aways, but tonight it was fairly packed. Ruby and I get a table directly in front of the Media Awards wall where you can read how many times they’ve won The Metro Times best Chinese restaurant award. Most of the awards are extremely yellowed meaning they must have gotten awards for quite some time.
Our waitress, who was charming in a non-English kind of way, quickly brought us our waters. Ruby ordered the Curry Chicken, yum, with a bowl of egg drop soup, equally yum. I ordered the…guess…the Amazing Chicken and a bowl of hot and sour soup.
Our soup arrives promptly. When at a Chinese restaurant, I immediately grab for the soy sauce as if it’s a bag of money, despite my high blood pressure, which is being controlled with Micardis HCL, anywho, I reach across the table to grab the soy sauce and lo and behold 4 rather small but equally offensive cockroaches run out from behind the soy sauce and run directly across my hand then onto the floor. After 10 seconds of shock expire, I jump up and scream not unlike a girl would do. Everyone in the restaurant drops what they’re doing and it’s all eyes on me. Not a fan of attention, I flipped my wig even more. When the kind Oriental owner came over she had a look on her face as if she’s seen this thousands of times over…and if you’ve been there, you would agree. Not even a sorry, or your meal is on us, crockroash no etra charg.
Too upset to eat I demand to my friend Ruby, who is quite fond of food and overeating in general, to leave immediately. Ruby then asks me if we want to get our food as a take away. I publicly chastised her and asked her how can have the gall to take food home that shared the same surface as a family of cockroaches? I walked out and yelled “FILTHY!”
To this day I still order Amazing Chicken take-away. And chit chat with the owner. I can’t help it.
~ Davin Whipplethorpe
Our waitress, who was charming in a non-English kind of way, quickly brought us our waters. Ruby ordered the Curry Chicken, yum, with a bowl of egg drop soup, equally yum. I ordered the…guess…the Amazing Chicken and a bowl of hot and sour soup.
Our soup arrives promptly. When at a Chinese restaurant, I immediately grab for the soy sauce as if it’s a bag of money, despite my high blood pressure, which is being controlled with Micardis HCL, anywho, I reach across the table to grab the soy sauce and lo and behold 4 rather small but equally offensive cockroaches run out from behind the soy sauce and run directly across my hand then onto the floor. After 10 seconds of shock expire, I jump up and scream not unlike a girl would do. Everyone in the restaurant drops what they’re doing and it’s all eyes on me. Not a fan of attention, I flipped my wig even more. When the kind Oriental owner came over she had a look on her face as if she’s seen this thousands of times over…and if you’ve been there, you would agree. Not even a sorry, or your meal is on us, crockroash no etra charg.
Too upset to eat I demand to my friend Ruby, who is quite fond of food and overeating in general, to leave immediately. Ruby then asks me if we want to get our food as a take away. I publicly chastised her and asked her how can have the gall to take food home that shared the same surface as a family of cockroaches? I walked out and yelled “FILTHY!”
To this day I still order Amazing Chicken take-away. And chit chat with the owner. I can’t help it.
~ Davin Whipplethorpe
Friday, May 15, 2009
EMORY ON NOTICE
Last night Stavros and I had dinner at the Emory and a completely different waitress from the earlier "split check" incident SPLIT OUR CHECK. I thought Stavros was going to punch her for a minute. What is the problem, Emory? We were together in the same booth, no one else present this time...we even shared the goddamned fries! Is it not enough that you insult us with your horrible jukebox and the hidden surcharge on your fake A1? Now you suggest that our couplehood is repeatedly in doubt? You're on notice, Emory. Please note the fate of Cafe Muse.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
THANG LONG
Our bike ride was rained out last Saturday so Stavros and I decided it was a good afternoon to go to the movies and visit our all-time favorite place: Thang Long. It’s the one and only Vietnamese restaurant I’ve ever eaten at (Notice I said “eaten at” and not “been to.” More on this later*.) and I think it is the bomb, as does Stavros, and we are wiling to overlook a number of indiscretions that would place any other restaurant on our permanent “DO NOT CALL” list.
It started to rain on our way there and was steadily spitting down by the time we arrived. I was completely starving, like the kind of starving where every McDonald’s billboard drives you mad with food-lust and the idea of Kentucky Fried Chicken sounds really good. We pulled into a parking place near the front door and I leapt out of the car.
“AAAHHHHHH!”
I was just reaching for the door when I heard the wail bleat from a very aggrieved Stavros. I turned around and he was grimacing and limping around on the sidewalk in front of the car. “Oh, Stavros! Love of my life—what happened?” cried I.
“I twisted my fuckin’ ankle!” he said, and continued his cockeyed walk around on the pavement, trying to alleviate the pain. He moved off the sidewalk and into the vacant parking place next to ours, and at once a car pulled into the space, forcing him back onto the pavement at a rather rapid clip.
“Goddamn it. What’s wrong with my fucking feet?” he asked God, or perhaps he was talking to me. He was referring to the fact that a few weeks earlier, he sustained a mysterious injury to one of his feet—I forget which, it was either the right or the left—that caused him great distress and inconvenience.
We briefly contemplated a later trip to CVS to purchase an ace bandage, came to no conclusion on the topic, and entered Thang Long.
Normally there are only a few tables occupied and we have our choice of seating, but on this day, every booth on the South wall—my preferred location—was full as was the “mezzanine,” (a one-step-up row of tables facing the front window) which is my second choice. The host, a diminutive Asian with possible birth defects, led us to a table on the North wall, and I knew this wouldn’t do. As we know from experience, these tables are unsuitable for all but the most obese persons, as the backs of the benches are approximately 3 ½ feet from the tabletop. So if you don’t have to accommodate an enormous midsection, you must perch on the very edge of the seat in order to reach your food, which hurts my back and also is just generally uncomfortable. Plus it seems kind of windy on that side. Nonetheless, we gamely slid into the booth and just as gamely slid right the hell back out and pointed to the one open table on the North wall that was unoccupied. Yes, I know I said earlier they were all full, but that’s because, frankly, I wasn’t counting the one at the very end of the row because it’s right next to the kitchen and I don’t like it. We walked over to the table, and to our waitress’s confusion, I did not sit, but stood scanning the tableau behind me for a miracle opening. Stavros was already seated on the side facing the front of the restaurant and so finally I surrendered, feeling he’d already suffered enough recently without me dragging him from table to table.
I took my seat and noted the grimy Plexiglas behind him, separating us from the lower 2/3 of the kitchen’s swinging door and whatever was stacked on the bottom shelves of the rack affixed to the wall. I could see some plastic containers stacked haphazardly and a few empty jars. Nothing in this place is too clean so it doesn’t really bear inspecting and with this in mind, I tore my eyes from the dripping hand towel on the top shelf and opened the menu.
“What are you going to get?” I demanded of Stavros immediately. “Are you getting the Hue?” Hue is some kind of spicy beef soup and Stavros orders it every time we eat there.
“Yes,” he said, and I briskly replied, “Alright, maybe I should see if they’ll let me get that one soup in a big bowl. I wonder if it comes that way, or just in a cup. Then we can get that salad, the one with bean sprouts. That seems like it would be enough. Or maybe I could get that one thing, the one with the noodles. We don’t want leftovers. They’ll rot while we’re in the movies. What do you want? Do you want some of the noodles? Maybe I should get that and a cup of the soup. Do you like that salad?”
I kept up this prattle for a good ten minutes until the waitress arrived. I believe she is the matriarch of Thang Long. She is always our waitress. I think a family owns it, and they are the only people who work there. Anyway, she stood at the table, pen poised over her pad and an expectant and slightly mocking look on her face as always.
“Well,” I told her, closing my menu, “After much deliberation, we’ve decided to get what we always get,” and I recited not only my order, but Stavros’s too, as at some point I had made the unconscious decision to steward our luncheon experience due to his injury.
“Wait.” She was confused. “C75 plus Hue? You want crunchy roll?”
“No. No crunchy roll,” I tell her. “Mine comes with one. You can have it.” I direct this last comment at Stavros, who was feebly attempting to protest and break into my dictatorial dictation of our menu.
I think Stavros was beaten down by his ankle pain because he capitulated and allowed me to issue further commands to the waitress. After she read back our order in an obviously annoyed tone, she retreated to the kitchen and I sat back and sipped water, occasionally allowing my eyes to drift around the area behind Stavros. There was a bicycle leaning against the wall next to the restrooms. Whose is that? I wondered, visions of a steamy Asiatic marketplace forming in my mind. Chickens flapping amid the teeming crowds of sweaty brunettes in gray sweatpants and flip flops. Asian men on bicycles wearing those big round straw hats transporting miscellaneous carcasses in baskets hanging from their shoulders.
“Hue. Chicken soup. Salad.” The waitress returned and I was jolted from my reverie. She slammed the bowls on the table and walked away. I noticed Stavros’s soup was a small size, what they call a “cup” at Thang Long.
“You just got the cup?” I asked.
“Yes, this is why I wanted my own crispy rolls,” he said patiently, stirring his soup.
“Oh.”
I felt kinda bad. Poor guy hadn’t gotten a word in edgewise during my attempt to control some portion of our experience. Sitting in that lame booth that was rejected by all other persons in the restaurant had really left me feeling at loose ends.
The rest of lunch passed without incident as I stuffed wad after wad of beansprouts and cabbage and noodles into my piehole. The tabletop before me was scattered with debris. Stavros ate his soup with his usual delicate good manners, and gracefully accepted my crispy roll without complaint as to its singlehood. Finally, we folded our napkins and got up to leave. As I was standing at the cashier’s desk (manned by the matriarch), Stavros limped over to the wall of reviews from local papers.
I took his arm to leave and once we were out, he told me that one of them hadn’t been particularly flattering.
“Located in a derelict strip mall sandwiched between a pregnancy center and a shuttered fast cash shop, Thang Long is best when you stick to the simple fare,” he recited from memory.
Okay, so at this point I should also mention, as a testament to how good this place really is, review be damned—on one of our first trips there, I found what was unmistakably a pubic hair in my “C75.” And we still went back.
* Last fall we noticed a storefront under construction in Clawson promising the imminent arrival of “Da Nang—Authentic Vietnamese Cuisine.” We waited months for them to open. I was in contact via email with the owner. Finally, two months overdue, they opened and we drove down one Saturday afternoon. First, it was overclean and smelled of construction. Not food. Paint and wood and cement. Secondly, there was virtually nothing on the menu but beef, which I do not eat. And third, it was about twice or three times as expensive at Thang Long. We slipped out without ordering anything and drove to Thang Long at once.
It started to rain on our way there and was steadily spitting down by the time we arrived. I was completely starving, like the kind of starving where every McDonald’s billboard drives you mad with food-lust and the idea of Kentucky Fried Chicken sounds really good. We pulled into a parking place near the front door and I leapt out of the car.
“AAAHHHHHH!”
I was just reaching for the door when I heard the wail bleat from a very aggrieved Stavros. I turned around and he was grimacing and limping around on the sidewalk in front of the car. “Oh, Stavros! Love of my life—what happened?” cried I.
“I twisted my fuckin’ ankle!” he said, and continued his cockeyed walk around on the pavement, trying to alleviate the pain. He moved off the sidewalk and into the vacant parking place next to ours, and at once a car pulled into the space, forcing him back onto the pavement at a rather rapid clip.
“Goddamn it. What’s wrong with my fucking feet?” he asked God, or perhaps he was talking to me. He was referring to the fact that a few weeks earlier, he sustained a mysterious injury to one of his feet—I forget which, it was either the right or the left—that caused him great distress and inconvenience.
We briefly contemplated a later trip to CVS to purchase an ace bandage, came to no conclusion on the topic, and entered Thang Long.
Normally there are only a few tables occupied and we have our choice of seating, but on this day, every booth on the South wall—my preferred location—was full as was the “mezzanine,” (a one-step-up row of tables facing the front window) which is my second choice. The host, a diminutive Asian with possible birth defects, led us to a table on the North wall, and I knew this wouldn’t do. As we know from experience, these tables are unsuitable for all but the most obese persons, as the backs of the benches are approximately 3 ½ feet from the tabletop. So if you don’t have to accommodate an enormous midsection, you must perch on the very edge of the seat in order to reach your food, which hurts my back and also is just generally uncomfortable. Plus it seems kind of windy on that side. Nonetheless, we gamely slid into the booth and just as gamely slid right the hell back out and pointed to the one open table on the North wall that was unoccupied. Yes, I know I said earlier they were all full, but that’s because, frankly, I wasn’t counting the one at the very end of the row because it’s right next to the kitchen and I don’t like it. We walked over to the table, and to our waitress’s confusion, I did not sit, but stood scanning the tableau behind me for a miracle opening. Stavros was already seated on the side facing the front of the restaurant and so finally I surrendered, feeling he’d already suffered enough recently without me dragging him from table to table.
I took my seat and noted the grimy Plexiglas behind him, separating us from the lower 2/3 of the kitchen’s swinging door and whatever was stacked on the bottom shelves of the rack affixed to the wall. I could see some plastic containers stacked haphazardly and a few empty jars. Nothing in this place is too clean so it doesn’t really bear inspecting and with this in mind, I tore my eyes from the dripping hand towel on the top shelf and opened the menu.
“What are you going to get?” I demanded of Stavros immediately. “Are you getting the Hue?” Hue is some kind of spicy beef soup and Stavros orders it every time we eat there.
“Yes,” he said, and I briskly replied, “Alright, maybe I should see if they’ll let me get that one soup in a big bowl. I wonder if it comes that way, or just in a cup. Then we can get that salad, the one with bean sprouts. That seems like it would be enough. Or maybe I could get that one thing, the one with the noodles. We don’t want leftovers. They’ll rot while we’re in the movies. What do you want? Do you want some of the noodles? Maybe I should get that and a cup of the soup. Do you like that salad?”
I kept up this prattle for a good ten minutes until the waitress arrived. I believe she is the matriarch of Thang Long. She is always our waitress. I think a family owns it, and they are the only people who work there. Anyway, she stood at the table, pen poised over her pad and an expectant and slightly mocking look on her face as always.
“Well,” I told her, closing my menu, “After much deliberation, we’ve decided to get what we always get,” and I recited not only my order, but Stavros’s too, as at some point I had made the unconscious decision to steward our luncheon experience due to his injury.
“Wait.” She was confused. “C75 plus Hue? You want crunchy roll?”
“No. No crunchy roll,” I tell her. “Mine comes with one. You can have it.” I direct this last comment at Stavros, who was feebly attempting to protest and break into my dictatorial dictation of our menu.
I think Stavros was beaten down by his ankle pain because he capitulated and allowed me to issue further commands to the waitress. After she read back our order in an obviously annoyed tone, she retreated to the kitchen and I sat back and sipped water, occasionally allowing my eyes to drift around the area behind Stavros. There was a bicycle leaning against the wall next to the restrooms. Whose is that? I wondered, visions of a steamy Asiatic marketplace forming in my mind. Chickens flapping amid the teeming crowds of sweaty brunettes in gray sweatpants and flip flops. Asian men on bicycles wearing those big round straw hats transporting miscellaneous carcasses in baskets hanging from their shoulders.
“Hue. Chicken soup. Salad.” The waitress returned and I was jolted from my reverie. She slammed the bowls on the table and walked away. I noticed Stavros’s soup was a small size, what they call a “cup” at Thang Long.
“You just got the cup?” I asked.
“Yes, this is why I wanted my own crispy rolls,” he said patiently, stirring his soup.
“Oh.”
I felt kinda bad. Poor guy hadn’t gotten a word in edgewise during my attempt to control some portion of our experience. Sitting in that lame booth that was rejected by all other persons in the restaurant had really left me feeling at loose ends.
The rest of lunch passed without incident as I stuffed wad after wad of beansprouts and cabbage and noodles into my piehole. The tabletop before me was scattered with debris. Stavros ate his soup with his usual delicate good manners, and gracefully accepted my crispy roll without complaint as to its singlehood. Finally, we folded our napkins and got up to leave. As I was standing at the cashier’s desk (manned by the matriarch), Stavros limped over to the wall of reviews from local papers.
I took his arm to leave and once we were out, he told me that one of them hadn’t been particularly flattering.
“Located in a derelict strip mall sandwiched between a pregnancy center and a shuttered fast cash shop, Thang Long is best when you stick to the simple fare,” he recited from memory.
Okay, so at this point I should also mention, as a testament to how good this place really is, review be damned—on one of our first trips there, I found what was unmistakably a pubic hair in my “C75.” And we still went back.
* Last fall we noticed a storefront under construction in Clawson promising the imminent arrival of “Da Nang—Authentic Vietnamese Cuisine.” We waited months for them to open. I was in contact via email with the owner. Finally, two months overdue, they opened and we drove down one Saturday afternoon. First, it was overclean and smelled of construction. Not food. Paint and wood and cement. Secondly, there was virtually nothing on the menu but beef, which I do not eat. And third, it was about twice or three times as expensive at Thang Long. We slipped out without ordering anything and drove to Thang Long at once.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
GUEST POST--MORE HORROR AT THE EMORY
Today's post is from celebrity guest columnist Davin Whipplethorpe. Enjoy.
I am having issues with a couple I was staring at like a car wreck, last Monday at The Emory in Ferndale, Mi. They were very fascinating to me as they were very unusual in the persnickety sense. First, the man comes in dressed like a Dandy, and amongst all the empty seats at the bar, sits 2 chairs away from me. I thought, ok, maybe he’s going to try and bum a cigarette or a light from me, a non-smoker. \I then overheard him order a martini with olives from the foxy bartender. As I watched the drink being poured, I noticed the bartender used Smirnoff Vodka to make the martini. Now, you tell me the man couldn’t shell out $2 more for Belvedere or Grey Goose? Shortly thereafter, an overly dressed woman, right out of West Bloomfield if you catch my drift, comes in and sits next to the Dandy Man. She insists to see a food menu as well as a drink menu. She started to ask way too many questions about the ingredients in the food. For Christ’s sake, it’s a bar menu. Anywho, she decides on a house salad and a cup of chicken noodle. The man had a burger, which looked delicious. This is where I begin to get spooked. The woman finally ordered a cabernet to enjoy with her man’s cheap martini. She ordered a house cabernet…a chintzy $5 glass of Salmon Creek poured from those huge liter bottles. She requested to the foxy bartender to bring the bottle over so she can see the label. It’s Salmon Creek! Go to CVS if you want to see the label. The bartender did bring the bottle to her for her approval, all the while looking at me and rolling his eyes. Finally, their food arrives. The man seemed to enjoy his burger that he ate like a normal person would. The woman, on the other hand, would spear a few pieces of salad and then proceed to dip it into her chicken noodle soup. She did this with every bite for at least a half hour. Eventually, she got tired of dipping and just poured the chicken noodle soup over the rest of her salad. I was so flabbergasted by her eating ritual that I couldn’t help but comment to my drinking partner. Probably a bit too loud as she didn’t respond well to the fact that I compared her eating habits to that of a retard. I can tell this by the daggers she shot into me with her eyes.
~ Davin Whipplethorpe
I am having issues with a couple I was staring at like a car wreck, last Monday at The Emory in Ferndale, Mi. They were very fascinating to me as they were very unusual in the persnickety sense. First, the man comes in dressed like a Dandy, and amongst all the empty seats at the bar, sits 2 chairs away from me. I thought, ok, maybe he’s going to try and bum a cigarette or a light from me, a non-smoker. \I then overheard him order a martini with olives from the foxy bartender. As I watched the drink being poured, I noticed the bartender used Smirnoff Vodka to make the martini. Now, you tell me the man couldn’t shell out $2 more for Belvedere or Grey Goose? Shortly thereafter, an overly dressed woman, right out of West Bloomfield if you catch my drift, comes in and sits next to the Dandy Man. She insists to see a food menu as well as a drink menu. She started to ask way too many questions about the ingredients in the food. For Christ’s sake, it’s a bar menu. Anywho, she decides on a house salad and a cup of chicken noodle. The man had a burger, which looked delicious. This is where I begin to get spooked. The woman finally ordered a cabernet to enjoy with her man’s cheap martini. She ordered a house cabernet…a chintzy $5 glass of Salmon Creek poured from those huge liter bottles. She requested to the foxy bartender to bring the bottle over so she can see the label. It’s Salmon Creek! Go to CVS if you want to see the label. The bartender did bring the bottle to her for her approval, all the while looking at me and rolling his eyes. Finally, their food arrives. The man seemed to enjoy his burger that he ate like a normal person would. The woman, on the other hand, would spear a few pieces of salad and then proceed to dip it into her chicken noodle soup. She did this with every bite for at least a half hour. Eventually, she got tired of dipping and just poured the chicken noodle soup over the rest of her salad. I was so flabbergasted by her eating ritual that I couldn’t help but comment to my drinking partner. Probably a bit too loud as she didn’t respond well to the fact that I compared her eating habits to that of a retard. I can tell this by the daggers she shot into me with her eyes.
~ Davin Whipplethorpe
Friday, May 1, 2009
GALL AT THE EMORY
I forgot to record a stunningly lame experience Stavros and I had last weekend at the Emory.
Normally we wouldn't go there for dinner but it was very sunny and nice out and neither of us had the energy to try to figure out anything exotic. So we took a table near the window and had an average sandwich-based dinner. (There was one incident regarding my suspicion that my request for no mayonnaise on my BLT had been ignored but it turned out only to be butter. Which is still gross because I don't consider butter a condiment.) When we were almost finished, my dear friend Janis Beaglehole and her boyfriend Ronald Pringlefarm showed up with his small daughter Maverick and they took the table next to ours. After having a drink with them and enjoying the charming little girl's drawings and antics, Stavros asked out waitress for the bill. "Just yours?" she asked. "Yes," he answered.
The bill arrived, Stavros paid it, and we left.
The following morning, Janis called me. She said our waitress had come to the table following our departure in a state of distress. It turns out that when she'd asked Stavros if he meant "his" bill, she'd meant his alone. Not mine. His. Nevermind that we'd arrived together, ate together, were clearly TO-GETH-ER...somehow this lady thought we were going dutch, perhaps even leaving seperately, and when he asked for his check, he meant to pay for his own food and drink and leave without me. The waitress apparently told Janis and Ronald that they'd "just have to pay" my tab. After giving it some thought, the waitress apparently changed her mind, which was good because Janis and Ronald were justifiably affronted by the notion, and she told them that because she sees us "all the time" --an overstatement, she sees us sometimes--she would catch us later. Well, this "catching us" concept came to fruition a few days later when I stopped in for a drink. I ordered and was standing at the bar examining my cuticles while I waited for my drink and suddenly she slid onto the bar in front of me and folded her arms on the counter and said "Hi," in a tone of voice Dick Cheney might use when personally strapping Osama Bin Laden to a waterboarding table.
"Hi," I said, well aware of where we were goin' with this. She says, "Did you hear about what happened?"
"Yeah," says I, waving a hand toward the bartender ringing up my drink, "Just add it to my tab."
I see her steathily approach the bartender and watch as a brief caucus takes place. I go sit down. A few minutes later, she appears at the table and kneels before me as if in supplication.
"I can't add that to your tab," she says, "I had to pay for it myself so I need you to give me the money."
"You want me to pay you right now?" I ask, just makin' sure I understand.
"Yes," she says.
"I don't have any cash," I tell her.
"Can you write me a check?"
OK. I'm galled now. I understand that I, or we, owe her this money, but I am beginning to feel hounded. We didn't try to skip out on the tab.
"Um...we'll come by tomorrow and pay it," I say.
Tomorrow is Friday. Stavros and I have dinner at Shilla, which is "just okay," according to local journalist Morticia Baton. Afterward, we go to the Emory as promised for a drink and to pay our tab.
Stavros generously handed over a rough estimate of our payment to the manager, Byron, who indicated that he felt the whole matter was distasteful and also added that if he'd known about it that night, that he'd have had our bill erased entirely.
They do have good pickles there, though.
Normally we wouldn't go there for dinner but it was very sunny and nice out and neither of us had the energy to try to figure out anything exotic. So we took a table near the window and had an average sandwich-based dinner. (There was one incident regarding my suspicion that my request for no mayonnaise on my BLT had been ignored but it turned out only to be butter. Which is still gross because I don't consider butter a condiment.) When we were almost finished, my dear friend Janis Beaglehole and her boyfriend Ronald Pringlefarm showed up with his small daughter Maverick and they took the table next to ours. After having a drink with them and enjoying the charming little girl's drawings and antics, Stavros asked out waitress for the bill. "Just yours?" she asked. "Yes," he answered.
The bill arrived, Stavros paid it, and we left.
The following morning, Janis called me. She said our waitress had come to the table following our departure in a state of distress. It turns out that when she'd asked Stavros if he meant "his" bill, she'd meant his alone. Not mine. His. Nevermind that we'd arrived together, ate together, were clearly TO-GETH-ER...somehow this lady thought we were going dutch, perhaps even leaving seperately, and when he asked for his check, he meant to pay for his own food and drink and leave without me. The waitress apparently told Janis and Ronald that they'd "just have to pay" my tab. After giving it some thought, the waitress apparently changed her mind, which was good because Janis and Ronald were justifiably affronted by the notion, and she told them that because she sees us "all the time" --an overstatement, she sees us sometimes--she would catch us later. Well, this "catching us" concept came to fruition a few days later when I stopped in for a drink. I ordered and was standing at the bar examining my cuticles while I waited for my drink and suddenly she slid onto the bar in front of me and folded her arms on the counter and said "Hi," in a tone of voice Dick Cheney might use when personally strapping Osama Bin Laden to a waterboarding table.
"Hi," I said, well aware of where we were goin' with this. She says, "Did you hear about what happened?"
"Yeah," says I, waving a hand toward the bartender ringing up my drink, "Just add it to my tab."
I see her steathily approach the bartender and watch as a brief caucus takes place. I go sit down. A few minutes later, she appears at the table and kneels before me as if in supplication.
"I can't add that to your tab," she says, "I had to pay for it myself so I need you to give me the money."
"You want me to pay you right now?" I ask, just makin' sure I understand.
"Yes," she says.
"I don't have any cash," I tell her.
"Can you write me a check?"
OK. I'm galled now. I understand that I, or we, owe her this money, but I am beginning to feel hounded. We didn't try to skip out on the tab.
"Um...we'll come by tomorrow and pay it," I say.
Tomorrow is Friday. Stavros and I have dinner at Shilla, which is "just okay," according to local journalist Morticia Baton. Afterward, we go to the Emory as promised for a drink and to pay our tab.
Stavros generously handed over a rough estimate of our payment to the manager, Byron, who indicated that he felt the whole matter was distasteful and also added that if he'd known about it that night, that he'd have had our bill erased entirely.
They do have good pickles there, though.
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