MAE'S: MAEBE NOT

While never fans of the original Anna’s, Stavros and I were nonetheless anxious to try the new breakfast/lunch place it became following “Anna’s” death.

Mae’s opened weekend before last to mixed reviews from our friends. So this past Sunday, we decided to forego our usual New York Bagel brunch and try it.

We could tell as we approached that not much had been done to the décor. Which is fine; the place was a time capsule of 1955 as it was. It was packed and about eight people stood just inside the door waiting for a table. Normally this is good but since there are a few tables just inside the door, I expect the people sitting there felt a little uncomfortable being surrounded that way. I noticed a fellow we know from a local band and his wife and daughter at the nearest table. I hadn’t seen them at first because they were completely obscured by the crowd of women waiting for a party to leave so they could descend upon their table. I wondered how annoying it would be to try to have breakfast with a bunch of strangers’ crotches a few feet from your face.

Their extremely cute character of a daughter didn’t mind and shoved a fork around a plate of hash brown while bobbing her little head around to Elton John, which was playing very loudly from someplace. Stavros immediately began humming a song by our friend’s band.

“This part is the best part of that whole record," he said to me, “Dungity-dungity-dungity-dungity DUNG DUNG!”

We stood there for about 15 minutes, the soundtrack alternating between Stavros’s personal rendition of our friend’s song and the iPod’s annoying mix. The owners are clearly going for an old-timey Detroit diner feel while still being modern and hip, so the result is CKLW station IDs followed by Motown hit followed by the aforementioned Elton John followed by She’s a Little Runaway followed by Beck.

Finally a two-top opened and we seized it. It was at the back of the restaurant, the very last table, in fact. I should mention that while we stood waiting for a table, at no time did any employee acknowledge us at all. A line for a table is a good problem to have, but they’re going to have to address the interior crowding issue by asking people to wait outside. Allright, so we take the two-top. Right away I’m too cold. The a/c was blasting from someplace directly on us and had I not been wearing a long trench coat, I would have put it back on.

Our waitress delivered the menus and then didn’t come back for a while which gave me time to examine my surroundings.

The place is small, like maybe eight tables, with a counter that has about 12 stools. It’s on a corner and the front and north side are all windows, the front looking out onto Woodward and the north looking out onto a bland office building and some residential Pleasant Ridge homes. The windowsill is lined with little vintage vases into which real flowers are tucked. We had miniature roses and some other thing I couldn’t identify and that had no fragrance at all next to our table. The salt and pepper shakers follow in the Flytrap tradition of being different cute little vintage shakers on each table. We had a cow bisected neatly crosswise.

 I discovered the source of the loud music on a shelf over a food prep area behind the counter. There rested an iPod in a Bose dock, which very effectively reproduced the decibel level of at least four speakers ten times its size, all operating at top volume. I like loud music as much as the next hipster but it was too way loud and also the mix was too contrived.

Behind the counter were chalkboards announcing the types of drinks available and also quite a lot of bragging comments about carrying local products. Faygo cans and Better Made bags featured prominently. Which is great, I love both of those things. It just felt, like the music, contrived.

Other intriguing sights included the backs of the grimy couple across from us. They slouched on the stools, her tramp stamp an unrecognizable blotch of India ink bleeding out into crinkles of flab atop her low-slung “Da Nang” brand gray camouflage pants; his tattered and greasy sweatpants hanging in dismal shreds over his flip-flopped feet.

After scrutinizing every inch of these two, I looked to the menu. Regulation breakfast stuff with a surprise or two, like potato pancakes and deep-fried pancake balls of some foreign extraction. I went for the eggs, sausage, hash browns and toast combo and Stavros ordered some type of “platter,” the primary feature of which was French toast. I will say that I was glad to note that Mae’s has chosen to use shredded hash browns versus the “fancy” chopped potato type every single other place in town serves.

 So. I know it’s their first week and there are some glitches but I gotta say it took one hell of a long time to get the food. And when it finally came, they had forgotten my hash browns, the very centerpiece of my order.

“Excuse me,” I called to our waitress, who had the unpleasant waitress habit of bestowing upon customers various cheesy terms of endearment.

I told her I was pretty sure hash browns came with my order and she went off to check, then came back and said, “Angel, the ones we have on now are for people who already ordered them, and honestly, it’s going to take way too long to make more.”

“Really?” I said. “What about the potato pancakes?” She ran off to check and I must say that I was really affronted by the lack of hash browns. They do all the cooking right there out in the open so I could see that there was only one or two women making everything to order but hash browns seem like a pretty good thing to just go ahead and make a shitload of.

She came back a minute later after I’d already given up and was glumly eating my burnt eggs and not-very-toasted toast and tossed down a plate of hash browns.

“Turns out yours came with them after all so I stole some, sweetie,” she said.

All my food was totally mediocre. Stavros reported the same thing. They do use bread from Avalon (of course) and I am almost positive the orange juice was fresh squeezed and it was very good, but in general it was like the sort of breakfast you make at home that costs the same and takes just as long. The upside was that we didn’t have to do the dishes, I guess. All in all, I’d have to say that if I overlook the new-business hiccups, which I shall, because it’s to be expected, Mae’s is still not a place I’d choose over my beloved Café Muse or even New York Bagel unless I was really, really dying for shredded hash browns.

To top things off, we had to wait about 20 minutes just to pay. The waitress took forever to bring the check (“Here ya go, hon,”) and then Stavros and I stood at the counter for another—I kid you not—15 minutes trying to get the attention of someone back there who’d accept our credit card.

The problem is that if you’re not paying with cash, you have to go to the front of the counter and wedge yourself between stools to pay. I can’t imagine how long it might have taken had there not been a vacant seat there. It’s the original cash register and I applaud them for trying to keep all the vintagey stuff intact, but it just doesn’t work. Either the waitress has to take the check and ring it up (I vote for this) or they gotta move the register. It was really ridiculous. I know the guys back there were bustin’ ass but my desire to get out of there escalated to such a degree that by the time they rang us up, I felt like I never wanted to go back.

Conclusion: Mae’s—work on it.

INYO ON NOTICE

The following review, INYO ASS, SERVERS, is by my mother, Bonita Sigmundfreud. I would like to preface her commentary by describing the last and final experience Stavros and I had at this place.

It was the Friday of my first week at my new job and I worked a little late so I drove straight from work to pick up Stavros. We agreed to go Inyo over our preferred nearby Japanese joint, Sakana, for a change of pace. Also, we discovered that our favorite place Sakana is not so favoritey if we get anyone but our friend Delgado Activito as our waiter. We hadn’t been to Inyo for a long time and I can’t remember why other than having a vague memory of being annoyed by their loud and horrible music and also that they had a Victoria’s Secret fashion show on tv the last time we were there. My Japanese urge happens about twice a month and the previous week or so—Valentine’s Day dinner, in fact—we had gone to the fancier and spookier Shiro in Novi. 

(Review-within-a-review-within-a-review—Shiro was really fun. It is a giant antebellum mansion that is purportedly haunted. It was once a grand private home and it still feels like you’re at a huge dinner party at someone’s house. After dinner we went upstairs to check out the second floor diners and came upon an unlocked, unmarked door that turned out to lead to the attic. We snuck up in the cold and dark and crept around for a while before scurrying back down and slipping out the door under the disapproving eye of a passing busboy. This is a good place to go if you want to make a big impression. Pulling into the driveway at night and being greeted by a million windows ablaze on the face of a gorgeous old mansion like that is stunning. It’s also really good and not any more expensive than your average suburban sushi joint. There’s a very cozy little bar that was probably a small maid’s bedroom or something tucked behind the staircase—it looks like a train car. It is really perfect for a date.)

Anyway, we entered Inyo the way people normally enter public places—through the front door. In keeping with these people being wrong about everything they do in relation to the concept of service, they installed the hostess station at the back door, and the bartender who greeted us as we walked in acted like we had pulled the Milton Berle of boners by hoping to get seated from the front of the restaurant. 

 

 Stavros did not like this at all. We strode to the rear, past the way-too-deep-and-tall booths and were led BACK TO THE FRONT to be seated. I had to turn sideways to squeeze past the chairs of the table next to ours, which was occupied by what looked like a rapper and his posse. They actually had a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in a bucket on the table and appeared not to be eating but rather holding a symposium on public leisure.

Once in my ultra-cramped chair, I realized it had a very pronounced wobbling problem. I did a couple of test-wobbles to make sure it wasn’t going to right itself and finally dragged myself out of it and flagged a passing busboy.

“The chair wobbles,” I said. I began rearranging my chair with the one next to it and told him that it needed to be fixed. He smiled and nodded in the way people do when they don’t exactly speak English but are in the service industry in an English-speaking country.

“My good man,” I began, prepared to deliver a lecture on the importance of even chair legs. Sensing this, he whisked himself off to another part of the restaurant and I took my new chair.

As any first week on a new job is, mine had been trying, and I was very thirsty. 

 I looked over the wine menu for a millisecond and settled on the second-cheapest Pinot Noir then began scanning the room for our server, who had yet to make him or herself known to us.

Finally the hostess slid into view, clutching the elbow of a 15-year-old boy wearing lipstick. She gave him a shove toward our table and he glided over. What followed was one of the strangest performances by a waiter I have ever experienced.

Firstly, he did not have lipstick on, it turned out, his lips were just very plump and rosy, and he pursed them together a lot and twisted them around so that they appeared on different sides of his face and curled into sneers and basically just slid all over his face like a pair of worms while he spoke. This unsettling phenomena was enhanced by his borderline leering and theatrically seductive looks; lots of eyebrow waggling and peering-through-the-lashes and knowing glances. His voice also traveled on its own meandering road, going from deep-voiced authority to girlish trilling swoon.

“And have we had a chance to look at the menu?”

“Um, actually, I’d like to get a glass of wine first, thanks.” I told him what I wanted and he almost fainted from pleasure.

“Oh, excellent choice!” he hissed in ecstasy, hugging the wine menu to his breast. “I just had that one yesterday and it is—so—delicious. Excellent, excellent!”

“Can I have the menu back…I…might want…”

“Of course, of course!” he cried, handing it back. After remembering to ask Stavros for his order, he fled, leaving us finally able to make eye contact.

“Good grief, what a screwball,” my Stavros said, looking even more like the manliest creature alive.

Within seconds the screwball with the screwy lips was back with drinks. He presented mine as if it was a diamond tiara and I was Elizabeth Taylor.

“Thank you,” said I, pouring the entire glass down my throat at once. “Very good.”

“Have we decided?” he fluttered.

I’ll save some time here and tell you that the food was mediocre and I had to send something back. Old Fluttery Eyes did not offer to bring me a replacement. Instead he looked pityingly at me when I told him I was rejecting it, as if it bespoke an irredeemable flaw within my palate that I could not enjoy waterlogged spinach.

  

Other annoyances include conversation between the lead rapper and a waitress who was opening yet another bottle of champers for him and his crew. He was temporarily alone at the table, his boyz all scattered about the bar or outside smoking, and he was obviously taking the opportunity to practice his smooth operations.

“And then you just pull out the cork like this…”

“You Japanese?”

“No, I’m actually half Korean and half American…anyway, you pull the cork…”

“You look aright for Korean. You like champagne?”

“Oh, um...hee hee…I don’t really drink..”

“Oh yeah? I bet you like champagne. S’all bubbly…taste real sweet.”

At this juncture I vomited into my handbag and we left. A few weeks later I told my parents the story and what did they do? They raced right out to Inyo.

INYO ASS, SERVERS

By Bonita Sigmundfreud

My husband and I went out to Inyo last Wednesday, March 10^th, for a drink and perhaps dinner. We got there around 5 pm. As usual at that hour, no one was behind the bar and a lone waiter sat and folded napkins at the front window. I sat at one of the window tables while my husband drove around back to find a parking place. A server came and offered me a drink and menus almost immediately, but after my husband came in, found me and sat down, we were ignored—until I looked over at the waiter folding napkins. He at once came to our table, took my husband’s order, and brought a drink.

This is typical Inyo at that hour of the day. The televisions over the bar are on, the music plays, but hardly any staff members are around. Why is there no bartender? 

Why do servers habitually gather into a small group to chat at the service area of the bar, while people are sitting and waiting at tables in the front of the place? 

It is all the more noticeable because servers are overly attentive to diners, who sit in booths at the back of the restaurant. The problem there is to get through more than three or four bites without someone asking whether everything is all right. The first time, it’s fine, even the second, but the pleasure of being looked after pales quickly afterward.

My impression is that management is not spending enough time at Inyo to know how people are performing their jobs. There is no excuse for leaving the bar unattended for longer than a restroom break during operating hours. Servers clearly realize that customers are waiting for service at the front and ignore them. Hasn’t anyone told them that drinkers frequently turn into diners? 

And that tips are calculated with service in mind?

The food is very good and well-priced. But Inyo needs to correct what is becoming a worsening lack of service. The few true professionals there need the support of their colleagues, and customers need reasons to continuing patronizing the place. 

GUEST POST--LUCY BLUMPKIN GOES TO ANN ARBOR

Today's guest post is from Lucy Blumpkin.

Dropped into downtown Ann Arbor after a long hiatus to see a show.

Memories of past dining experiences arose pleasantly as I juggled time and location issues. Many options swirled but one rose to the top like a plump olive in a martini, The Grecian Pizza joint two or three doors down from The Michigan Theater.

Rolling into town, I soon realized what a few months absence could do to a place. All the old standby eateries I recalled from the old days of loafing in Ann Arbor were strangely missing. These landmarks were the foundation of my navigation in the city, and I was soon befuddled as to where I even was. Seva, the veggie haven was still there. But where I knew the Grecian should have been, was literally a new block of architecture. Gone was the brightly lit, linoleum-floored haven that had supplied beers, thin slices and good antipasto before concerts gone by. Gone, in fact, was the pay phone outside that had heard so much of my useless chatter in the days before the pocket tele.

Parking hadn’t changed, and my date Jesse Sheafer drove around for 10 minutes, finding street parking in the residential area near Ann and Thayer. Amazing historic homes being ripped apart by students trying to load kegs in the window. Or so Jesse reasoned based on days visiting friends here as an undergrad.

Walking into town, we searched for a non-franchised establishment. Considering the scandal when Starbucks took over the corner of Liberty and State, the coffee shop now seemed like an old friend with Cosi, Buffalo Wild Wings, Potbelly and the like budding up like a teen blemish.

Then we walked by a cavernous place, all pale wood, high ceilings and sherbet silk fabrics. The delightful menu on the door declaimed it a place where you could relax, feel at home and enjoy food in good company (or something as granola crunchy.) Nuff said, we went in.

The thin, knit capped mild-mannered host may as well have said “Welcome to Ann Arbor” as he led us to a roomy booth with warm lighting and large menus. The next two things that happened were testament that they saw me coming and were prepared. First, we were instantly served large delicious glasses of water with ice. And second, the easy-to-find restroom (below street level, A² style) was delightfully warm.

The large bar area was festooned with students, and my eye instantly registered the sweet potato fries, thus beginning my wish list.

The menu offered interesting subsections such as Small Plates, Sides and Hand Helds along with the usual Entrees and Sandwiches.

Another thin young man walked up and offered his services as our waiter. With his soft manner, he was instantly likable and when he came back later smelling slightly of smoke, I liked him even more.

As is my wont, I made a menu choice then changed my mind several times until the waiter arrived to receive my questions.

“Tell me about the Caribbean Fish Taco’s, are they good?” I began.

“Oh yes, they are very popular at lunch,” he delivered back. This being dinner, I naturally slid the tacos into the maybe category.

“What about the lobster BLT?” I prodded

“We get a quite a few orders for that,” he said ambiguously.

LBLT was dead.

“What other fishy sort of things do you recommend?” I asked as if I were just asanxious as everyone to come to a conclusion.

“The seafood with pasta has this amazing white wine sauce…” he started to say, before I waved him off with disinterest.

“What about the butternut squash ravioli?” I tried.

He brightened, “That’s my absolute favorite thing on the menu.”

I had finally worn him out.

After a few minutes of contemplation to

imply that I had my own mind, I proceeded to order the ravioli.

“Oh, can we have the sweet potato fries as an appetizer?” I said, gratuitously including my partner.

Jesse made an easy getaway, ordering a cob hand-held and a bowl of the tomato bisque.

The soup was the first to arrive, and we explored its basily-garlic goodness, noting its similarity to that of Win Schulers in Marshall, Mich.

The fries did not disappoint, lightly flour-coated and fried to a delightful crispness, served with a creamy red pepper sauce.

Jesse enjoyed his wrap, while eyeing my bumpy brown dish suspiciously.

I sliced into the ravioli pillow brimming with squash, and slid it through the cream picking up walnut pieces and bits of sun-dried tomato along the way. It melted in my mouth. I ate in rapture until sharing occurred to me, but my offer was politely declined.

Knowing I wouldn’t be taking any home I ate too much, having been raised in the clean plate school of dining. I forced a bite on the reluctant Jesse, who humored me, then was more than pleasantly surprised. He too overindulged.

Sava’s posted promise did not disappoint. The experience in fact, gave me a tiny shred of hope that maybe the Ann Arbor I’d feared so changed, was simply evolving, it’s core individuality still intact. The card I grabbed on the way out confirmed my hunch; in addition to the vitals, the card read Life I love you, all is groovy.

Sava’s Cafe

734-623-2233

Yo, friends! Check this out!

I have just returned from strip-mall soul food at Beans & Cornbread. I was inspired to dine thusly after seeing this latest example of The Horrible Racism That Is Tearing Our Country Apart.

My associate Lucy Blumpkin and I were both virgins to the B & C scene and almost didn’t go following a review from our co-worker Jared Jabozniak, who declared it “unclean”; the food  “decent but only because it’s hard to screw that shit up.” I have been to many bad soul food restaurants (and one truly excellent one by which all others are measured) so I disagree with the latter comment but the cleanliness thing worried me.

Visions of the Black History month menu haunted me, however, so we decided to take a chance. I prepared for the worst and when I saw three or four available tables, my heart sank. “Noon on a weekday?” I murmured to Lucy. “This can’t be good.” She ignored me as is her custom and we followed our waitress (“LaToi”) to a booth. It seemed pretty clean to me. I closely examined the table and wall for smeared boogers or greasy fingerprints and finding none, decided Jared is simply a neurotic fag and picked up the menu. LaToi returned to take our drink orders.

“Do you have club soda?” I asked her. They have a full bar in there so I was pretty sure the answer was yes.

“No,” she answered.

I frowned and turned the menu over. I noticed they offered a grape Kool-aid martini.

“Wait—club soda…that’s…we have that.”

“I’d like one, please,” I told her briskly, closing the menu as Lucy humbly requested plain water.

I really wanted fried chicken, grits, and greens. They offered all three but not together. I noticed they had a “smothered” fried chicken served with mashed potatoes and gravy and a picture formed in my mind of a thick blanket of white (shudder!) slop hiding a bumpy mound on a plate. I was going to have to make some inquiries.

LaToi returned with the drinks and also a basket of plain cornbread and mini sweet potato cornbread muffins. Both were still hot and instantly melted the butter Lucy scraped out of the tiny Land-o-Lakes tray. I have to say that they were both totally excellent and I found myself marveling at the miracle of cornmeal. That’s how good it was. It was akin to the simultaneously banal and complex epiphanies experienced most commonly by fans of blotter acid.

After a few minutes, we were ready to order. I took a deep breath and began the negotiations of tailoring their menu to accommodate my whim.

“‘Smothered,’” I said to LaToi, looking deeply into her moist brown eyes. “Does that mean covered with gravy?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Here’s the deal: I don’t want it smothered in gravy, and I also don’t want the mashed potatoes. I want grits. Can I get that?”

“Uhhhh…it’d be…like…three or four dollars to add the grits,” she said.

“Three or four dollars?” I said, feigning confusion and pointing to the words “$1 for substitutions,” on the menu.

“That’s for regular sides,” she said in a matter-of-fact way that told me that even though grits cost about five cents per serving, the irregularity of their “side” status meant they were going to cost more than a dollar.

“Since we have the grits already made,” she went on, “we can still substitute them, though.”

I pondered this briefly. Grits were an accompaniment to at least two other items on the laminated, permanent lunch menu; that is, not a daily special. So, presumably, they were just as “already made” as everything else that was permissible to substitute.

“So, what is it, how many pieces of chicken is it?” I asked her, putting the grits issue aside for the time being.

“You get…a leg and…a…a thigh,” she concluded.

“Can I get a breast?”

“We have wings,” she said obstinately.

“What about breasts?”

“Hmmm…we have wings, and…let’s see, wings and legs and thighs on the lunch menu.”

“So I can’t get a breast instead?”

“We could do two breasts maybe. This is the lunch menu,” she added unnecessarily.

“Okay, well, I can’t eat two. How about just one instead of the leg and thigh?” I emphasized the “and” quite heavily hoping to appeal to her sense of two as being more than one and therefore a sacrifice on my part.

“I don’t think we can do that.” She seemed to be reverting to her earlier rigid “grits” stance so I sighed in a put-upon way and looked back down at the menu.

“We have wings,” she repeated helpfully in case I missed the 10 places wings were offered. Wings with grits, wings with hoppin’ john, wings with shrimp, etc.

“Okay,” I capitulated. “Wings. I’ll get the wings with grits and greens. Thanks.” I shut the menu and looked at Lucy, who was staring raptly at me.

“It’s either the catfish or the shrimp,” she said, looking at LaToi. “Which do you think?”

“Well…I love catfish, you know what catfish is. The other one, I haven’t had it but I’ve seen it and it looks good. If you want somethin’ you know what it is, get the catfish. If you feel like having somethin’ new, get the shrimp.”

Lucy seemed grateful for this rationale and briskly ordered the shrimp with grits.

We discussed ESP and ghosts like all girls do when there are no men present and I examined the other patrons. Everyone was well-dressed. I counted three TVs. The one facing me was showing the Food Network. A lady with too many teeth made what looked like a tomato smoothie in a blender then poured it into a tall, rectangular glass.

Finally LaToi appeared with our food. It did not take an especially long time but I was starving so it felt like an hour. There were four enormous wings heaped on one side of the plate with two small side bowls tucked on the other. Lucy’s was a large bowl of grits topped with slightly blackened shrimp and half-inch cubes of what looked like carmelized ham, if ham can be carmelized. It looked pretty good. She ordered the fried corn side, which was not really fried-looking enough for me.

My greens had shreds of pork throughout and were faintly hot with chili.

The grits were outstanding. The wings, however, were bogue. This could be due to the fact that I don’t like wings. It must be, actually, because the pieces of batter I peeled off were really good. It, too, was faintly hot, and also salty, which is excellent because I love salt.

Lucy reported that hers was very good, and we gave positive reviews to both LaToi and a very dressed-up man I assume was either the owner or manager who stopped by to ask.  I did apologize to LaToi for not eating the wings when she took my plate and explained that I don’t really like wings. I know she was thinking, “Then why’d ya order them, ya crazy bitch?” but if she were to cast her mind back to the ordering segment of our visit she might realize she’d bullied me into it. I decided to not to mention this on the "comments" form she gave us with our bill.

Afterward, we stopped at DSW to exchange some shoes for Lucy’s husband and just outside the door I found this shopping list for someone's sleepover party.

WEEKENDS WITH ERNIE

Ernie’s is a party store in Oak Park. I don’t want to say much more about it, nor do I need to. Watch and marvel at the wonder of Ernie’s. PS Take cash—no credit cards or checks accepted.

PPS I guess I need to say more. Two complaints have flown in already. Well, first of all, you get to customize your sandwich, beginning with the bread. Nothing is toasted so get ready for a wet bread experience. I chose white bread because I am an American and Stavros of course had to order the ethnic option, an onion roll. From there you just tell Ernie what to put on it, or in my case, what not to put on it. There is a $3, a $4, and a $5 version. We went with the expensive choice because we wanted to see what Ernie was made of when he went balls-out. We also tried Better Made's "Wavy" chips which I was not surprised to find were WAY better than Ruffles. Anyway, the sandwiches were good and vinegary, mine was, anyway, because of all the pickles and shit. There was something other than pepper in that shaker, too, because I definitely tasted celery and maybe some seasoned salt. You can tell that is what Ernie considers his special spice. The $5 is a very large sandwich, the kind you can't quite figure out how to get in your mouth. Next time I will get a smaller one. Stavros went back today and got one and said it was much better. If you don't like being chattered to in the manner of Ernie, like my good friend Janis Beaglehole, you should not go there, because he is obviously on fire like this all the time.

FOOD COURT JESTERS

As the Most Blessedest Day of All Year approaches, it becomes necessary to enter stores, even malls. Or in our case, “Collections.” Yesterday Stavros and I—following a hearty breakfast of Ikea-brand frozen pancakes and my special homemade English muffin breakfast sandwiches—did both.

I believe I have mentioned this assortment of shops before. This is a mall so vast it is on both sides of the same street, as crazy as that sounds! LOL!

We never go over to the south side, though, because it is mostly made up of Neiman-Marcus and Saks Fifth Avenue. Stavros and I prefer stores like Club Monaco (pronounced Muh-NAH-ko) and Urban Outfitters. If a store doesn’t deafen us with ear-splitting decibels of shitty music, we ain’t going in.

After an hour or so of riding escalators and elevators and dodging ugly teenagers and those people who just suddenly stop walking for no reason when in malls, I was nearly faint from hunger.

“I need soup. Let’s go to the food court,” I told my love.

“Okay,” he replied.

(We were kind of tired by then so the repartee wasn’t as snappy as usual.)

Because the escalators are only placed nearby stores no one wants to go to (the all-candy-apple emporium; the thousand-dollar pen store; the chairs for schizophrenics outlet; etc), we had to take the elevator up to the food court. Normally one wouldn’t view riding an elevator as a negative, but at the Collection, the two elevators are impossibly slow and there are always a couple of hundred meatheads clogging up the entrances and it’s hard to get on one in under a half hour or so. Luck was on our side and one of them was opening just as we approached. There was a lady in a wheelchair accompanied by her husband, a toddler, and a sleeping infant in a stroller. Why can’t they take the stairs? I thought bitterly, as they rolled in, hogging most of the elevator. We forced our way in as a tall girl with a luxurious mane of chestnut hair stood in indecision just outside the doors.

“Come on in!” I said generously, “There’s plenty of room!” Gesturing to the vastness of the elevator, I accidently backhanded the lady in the wheelchair.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled.

“How rude,” I whispered to Stavros, as the brunette finally made up her mind and stepped onto the elevator.

We rode in slow motion up to the second floor. The rear of the elevator is all glass and looks out onto the mall. Stavros and I turned and gazed out at all the holiday mayhem. The photo-with-Santa opportunity at the Collection consists of a much more elaborate setting than the one I visited as a child. Here, Santa lives in a castle. A two-story castle, overflowing with maidens inexplicably dressed in Ren-Faire garb. We peered down at Santa’s throne where a small boy huddled, weeping.

“WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!” Stavros suddenly shouted out of the blue, startling the elevator’s other passengers and waking the sleeping baby, who began to wail at once.

“Stavros!” I said, frowning.

“I’m just kidding,” he said, looking exasperated, and the doors opened.

We stepped out and I realized at once that the food court was on the third floor.

“Oh, God,” I said, looking around for an escalator. “Come on.” I took Stavros’s hand and dragged him along, past the underpants for hookers store and the soap made from soybeans shop.

“Whoa,” I cried, once we stepped onto the moving stairs, arms windmilling.

“What’s wrong?” asked Stavros, gripping my wrist.

“I just lost my balance, those hanging things…” I waved in the direction of the giant Christmas puppets suspended from the ceiling, which is about a thousand feet high.

“What are those?” Stavros asked.

“They are…jesters,” I replied.

“Oh.”

Once at the food court, I looked around at the selection. There was a salad place (no), a “Sbarro” (no, I can’t even say that word), a Chinese place, a Zoup!, (no, no) a deli and a place called “Honey Tree” (maybe and no). I hesitantly approached the deli.

“I want soup, what’s the soup?” I asked.

No one responded since I hadn't really directed my question to anyone and then I saw the board: Chicken noodle, matzoh ball, or white bean chicken chili. Chicken noodle sounded safest, so I ordered that, plus a side of pickles. In a flash my order appeared. Everything seemed to be in order except for the old pickles, which I quickly exchanged for new.

We took a table overlooking the parking lot and grimly grey sky. I peeled back the lid of my soup and saw with disappointment that it was the Just broth! version of soup, the kind where they scoop noodles or rice or a matzoh ball in. After I added two salts and two peppers it had a vague flavor, but not very much so I picked up the package of Saltines they provided.

“What the…Stavros! Look at this!” I commanded.

Stavros reached over and took the Saltines from my hand and turned the package over.

“I can’t believe it,” he said.

“Yeah, what is that? Some kind of cost-cutting measure?”

ONE SALTINE. When would you ever want just one Saltine? What the hell sort of a gyp is that?

Well, I’ll tell you, it didn’t make the soup any better at all. To make matters worse, an event I was trying to put out of my mind forever surfaced as I was trying to swallow a large glob of noodles and I nearly threw up. I had to tell Stavros about it; I had to try to expunge the memory.

“When we were in the Apple store….” I began.

Our first stop had been to pick up an item I special ordered for the new phone Stavros gave me for my birthday. Inside the store had been an older lady with an oldish golden retriever who was with a man pulling a large suitcase. The suitcase was unzipped and open when we walked in and I noticed two ugly decorative pillows inside and a large plastic-wrapped item.

He closed the suitcase before I could fully inspect its contents, however, so I turned my attention to the dog, who I had assumed was a seeing-eye dog and unpettable. He wore a vest as those dogs do, but this one, instead of reading, “Don’t pet me!” or whatever they say, said “Pet me! I’m friendly!” so I reached down and gave him the petting of his life. Stavros joined in and we gave him a full-body rubdown for a few minutes until the lady and the suitcase man left the store.

“The dog we were petting…he had a booger or something on his face and it got on my hand,” I continued, retching slightly.

“What? A booger? How do you know? Was it a glob? Or mucus?”

My mind reeled as I relived the sight of the grayish glob glistening wetly on my knuckle. I’d tried to wipe it on my receipt but it dissolved into smaller chunks and just spread around further.

“Yes,” I answered. “It was…mucus.”

“Like this?” He poked at a noodle on the edge of my Styrofoam bowl.

“Don’t.”

“Like this?” He lifted the noodle by its edge and let it flop back down.

“I mean it. Don’t.” I pushed the tray away.

At this point I have to believe that Stavros wanted our relationship to cross the barfing-in-front-of-each-other line, but I had to put my foot down. I stood up and like the gentleman he is, he bussed my tray for me and dropped the jokes.

My stomach back on solid ground, we strode out of the food court and back into the teeming madness.

“Let’s go to SEE.”

“Ok,” I said, knowing full well that my beloved has 20/20 vision.

He tried on a variety of frames with the help of a heavily made-up “associate,” who wanted him to make an appointment for an exam.

“Well….” he hem-hawed, “I’ll come back this week. Do those frames have an item number I can write down?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’ll just enter it into the system for you so when you come in we can find them.”

I could tell by Stavros’s body language (shoulders slumped, chin lowered in despair) that he’d wanted to try to find them online for less.

“Come along, my babboo,” I said, taking his arm, and we strolled out of the Collection and immediately became lost and could not find the car for a half hour.

GUEST POST--TOAST IS TOAST WITH ANDRE AND CINDY

Today's guest post is from local aesthete and man of arts and letters, Andre Prudhomme.

Thoughts of grand breakfasts swam through our heads as the night of December 1st drew to a close—I had taken a dear friend to Flint to pick up a quantity of good drywall, and neglecting dinner, found myself very hungry by the end of the night. Luckily I’d been able to furnish my insides with a thick morass of stout, but Cindy hadn’t the option to supplement solid food for good beer, so she took to pretzel rods, and we lumbered through the night. Needless to say, upon waking we found ourselves extremely famished.

“Breakfast. Where do you wanna go?”

“Well, it’s either Toast or Sam’s,” Cindy sighed.

We have our regular haunts, but rising after noon, those certain standbys were cut in half. So we found ourselves not thinking too hard, and with these two options.

“Let’s go to Sam's,” Cindy suggested, “You’re hungry, it’d be good.”

“Maybe... No, let’s go to Toast, the coffee...” Coffee is such an intimate part of the morning, and truthfully, the coffee at Sam's is not to standard. Toast became the victor.

As usual, when arriving at Toast, we found the back parking lot to be populated by cars belonging to aloof assholes; their haphazard idea of parking left little room for our little vehicle. Scuttling through the causeway I noticed a sign on the door of the adjacent restaurant giving hours, 4-9 PM, Friday and Saturday. I thought aloud, “My, that place must be fantastic!” Luckily the restaurant held only lunchgoers and not the usual hungover elites in for their weekly shovelful of “The Cure.”

It being a Wednesday we were able to seat ourselves and chose a table under a newly decorated wall, adorned with what must be the Christmas refuse of Anna’s Coffee Shop (God bless her).

We promptly ordered water and coffee and settled in with the menus, I determined to stray from the bacon and gouda omelet, my usual.

As quickly as we received our beverages Cindy commented, “This is going to be a while.”

Already she observed (what I later deduced) to be the waiter, and then a second man in the kitchen, operating the grill and dishwashing duties, taking on even the third task of bussing. The duo was operating the entire establishment.
Of course there was a table of demanding old ladies gumming up the works, so this meager staff (surely determined by some colleague’s “illness”) were already sinking into what seemed a maelstrom of gigantic proportions.

Our server was finally able to make it back for our order (and refill the coffee); Cindy deciding on oatmeal with a side of sausage and I choosing the Farmer’s Omelet, not a profound choice, but a great morning standby. Seeing as it had been nearly 24 hours since I’d eaten, I longed for the gluttonous portion.

As always Cindy was correct in her prediction—we talked of the week’s events, orated wild tales for our salt and pepper shakers (small bears in aprons), and waited for our order.

Finally the hustling server delivered a bowl of grey matter which Cindy immediately deemed “Soupy”; I with my lifelong abstinence of oatmeal couldn’t tell, but the porridge looked awfully drab and tasteless.

More revolting to me was the plateful of breakfast I received: the home fries appeared to be mutated raisins mixed with fried cheese and possibly pancake batter, accompanied by a pile of eggs and sausage lumps. A Farmer’s Omelet houses sausage, green peppers, onions, potatoes, and American cheese—this pile exhibited some vegetable pieces probably frozen around last Christmas (resurrected for this meal) with a portion of cheese lodged at the south end of the omelet, and uncertain trunks of sausage scattered about. As on the side, the potatoes exhibited a small, wrinkled appearance. However, in the omelet these tuberous pieces were at least edible, being soaked in the watery, half cooked egg like brine, which poorly housed this collage.

As soon as I saw that white runoff of the eggs I became appalled, pouring some obscenity across the table and cursing the very nook I had chosen for our repast. The gruel and sausages seemed to appease Cindy, though satisfaction certainly didn’t emanate from her side of the table. I struggled through, leaving a plate of withered potatoes astride a soupy remainder, and a sad side of dry rye on a small plate by the coffee. Yes, as lame as it is, even the toast was subpar.