Well, guess what, food-eaters? It’s not. It’s middle-eastern. Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how frustrating it’s been trying to find falafel in the state that has the largest Arabic community outside Iraq.
And if this discovery were not crushing enough, let us move on to the menu. The day we noticed Mezza had finally opened, a very nice lady spotted us peering at the menu posted in the window and rushed out to give us one. It’s been in my car for a couple of weeks and I’ve been using it to blot my lipstick. Today I was stuck at a red light for longer than the five seconds that I can tolerate having nothing to do and so I picked it up and glanced over the fare.
We’re finally at the thing I’m annoyed about: Dead center on the menu I see the header “PASTA.” Already I’m pissed—why do they have pasta? It’s Lebanese food! Then I read the brief description underneath and it turns out it’s one of those things where you can “create your own.” In fact, I think it actually says those despicable words, “Create Your Own Pasta!” (Say this with a sing-songy sneer.) The pasta shape is linguini. You can choose either marinara or cream sauce and then scallops, shrimp, or chicken. FOR $15.99! You’re not even paying for the expertise of a chef who’s mastered or even invented a recipe! It’s just some red sauce from a jar on ONE KIND OF PASTA ONLY that costs probably 50 cents a pound and then they throw a handful of chicken slices or shrimp that are worth about $2 and they have the nuts to charge $15.99 for that shit! In a Lebanese place! BURN IN HELL, MEZZA!
All right, now one quick other thing. Maybe you noticed I mentioned we were on our way to Café Muse. Okay, so maybe they had a couple of hiccups when they moved to the larger location. But I gotta admit, Stavros and I go there every weekend and we love it although I am still mad that they don’t have pickles. Call them cornichons, yo.
A few weeks ago on a spectacularly chilly and rainy morning, we were chatted up by one of the owners, David, whom you may recall commented here once in defense of his restaurant. David talks to us all the time, as do the rest of the staff, rather more than previously, in fact, and Stavros and I have considered that this could be a new policy. At any rate, on this particular rainy Saturday, David was preparing the table next to us in a rush and told us that his brother and cousin were in from out of town and would we please say nice things about him.
The brother and the cousin finally arrived, sat down, and were served the special beverage of the past few weeks, raspberry lemonade (which I think is $3—at Mezza, the plain, non-rasberried lemonade is FOUR DOLLARS) and got settled in. Stavros and I smiled at them with the special smugness of people who know the identities of others while their own remains unknown.
At once the cousin presented David with a gift—a painting she’d made just for him to hang in the restaurant. He unwrapped it and I of course craned my neck to see it. What I saw was about on par with a relative-created project any of us has received: a horror. Orange background with Jackson Pollacky swirls of gold puffy paint.
“Ohhhh!” exclaimed David.
“Ohhhh!” exclaimed I, immediately thereafter, as it was obvious I was staring. David’s eyes slid over mine, stopping for a split second to say, “Yes, I see that this is ghastly but she is my cousin” before skidding to a halt on her proud and smiling face.
“I know you like orange!” she beamed.
Well, Stavros and I really felt like one of the family after that. We practically hugged them all before stepping back out into the rain.
I considered writing about this episode then but I was afraid David would remember the interaction and figure out who I am. I hope enough time has passed, but if not, David, please do not let on that you know. It’s much more fun this way. XO!
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