Saturday, June 21, 2008
Not Today, Karen!
I love to cook.
Not a big shock, I also love to eat.
So when I get a suggestion of a new restaurant, I'm gonna check it out. (Unless it's sushi. Just not into raw fish.)
For months I have been driving by a restaurant that was slowly being built from the ground up (COMING SOON! Temple o' Good Eatin'! in neon pink was draped across the front fence), and wondered what sort of good eatin' we would find there. I googled the name—there were plenty across the country, but they were all individual restaurants.
Of course, Abby knew what was going on.
"It's going to be the ultimate fusion place!" she burbled. "A friend of mine is a graphic artist and she's designing their menu!" (Hopefully not a hot pink one.) "It's Hawaiian—" (Spam?) "—and Mexican—" (Spam tacos? (I shouldn't laugh. There was an ad campaign for Spam tacos. As a lark, Ducky and I made a batch. No leftovers. Those suckers were good.)) "—Greek—" (I give up.)
"Let's just call it international and leave it at that," I suggested.
"And the chef is awesome! She worked at Mount Olympus, so you know the Greek food will be fabulous—"
Oooooh. Yeah. Olympus was fabulous—was. It closed when the owner died and his kids, who knew how hard it was to run a restaurant, said, "Oh, hell no," noped outta there and sold the building to developers. If the chef at Garden o' Good Eatin' was the same one… "Okay, when do they open?"
She gave me a sly look. "Well…they're doing a test run in two weeks. Free meals for two hundred random people. They're giving away tickets on W-BAT, the alternative station—"
I shuddered faintly. Like sushi, not my thing.
"—and Terri scored a dozen tickets. You and Ducky want to come along? I was going to ask the team."
"Is there a limit?" I patted my expanding girth. "I can eat my way through a supermarket."
Abby checked her email. "Nope. It says "bring your best appetite."
"You bet. Where and when?"
"Meet at the restaurant at six o'clock on…" She checked the calendar on her phone. "Ha! Solstice."
"Will do. You guys better not get a case, I don't want to miss Hawaiian-Mexican-Greek-gods know what else food."
At least the building wasn't Pepto Bismol pink.
Actually, it was pretty. White stone (or a good fake), lots of vines and other greenery, and a nice fountain in the courtyard.
Abby and Tim and Ziva (and a third young woman I assumed was Abby's ticket-bearing friend, Terri) had arrived first and were camped out at the end of the walkway nearest the parking lot. But instead of keeping an eagle eye out for the rest of the group, they were clustered around a display case and laughing uproariously. Ducky and I found a parking spot that wasn't in the next county and ambled back. "What's so funny?" Ducky asked as we came up to another burst of laughter.
Chuckling and wiping his eyes, Tim stepped aside to give us access.
Under locked glass was a parchment-like poster titled You Don't Want to End Up Here.
After a few paragraphs, we were laughing as well.
"We had this famous actress—name redacted!—who came in and started a fight with her current husband and ex-husband…"
"These people had six monster children, throwing silverware and pouring sugar right into their mouths…"
"…and she kept sending things back, even though they were EXACTLY the way she ordered them…"
We were all on our best behavior that night.
And the food was amazing.