I doubt it kills me, but the chef might. More about that later.
First, the important stuff.
The bread with the President's butter.
And water from the Queen's spa.
So far, so good. The thing is that I ordered a steak, and it took some explanation to have the chef agree to leave off a sauce. Of course, I started out thinking A1, but stood corrected on that one very quickly.
I have no idea what this is.
Some sort of teensy sculpture based on bitty shrimps and a scrumptious green sauce. Your guess is as good as mine.
A spoon awaits the soup, and a knife awaits the steak.
Zuccini soup. I might have never tasted better.
And yes, I felt guilty messing it up as I struggled to not slam my face into the bowl.
When they say zuccini, they mean yellow squash. Shhhh...
I knew something was up when this comotion erupted in the kitchen. The chef was screaming between sobs, something about raw, naked, no sauce, and not fit for human consumption. He hung to the setver's leg as the server made his embarrased way to my table.
A delightful chunk of beef. Somewhat rare. No sauce. But with a small tray of salt and pepper that was apparently the interpretation of my explanation of not wanting sauce. Just a little salt and pepper.
I suppose the chef threw himself on his paring knife or something as I chowed down on the entrecôte. Go figure, but it did get quiet.
Now I could have used some catsup on these fries
But I dare not push my luck any further. It just wouldn't be prudent, given my otherwise precarious status in the country.
And then dessert. Creme brûlée.
I might never eat again just to avoid the sure dissapppintment I now know it will be. How will I ever face Toot's again?