I was feeling puny when I left work today, and I drove directly to the Burough for a healing dinner. It's what The Rocket serves there. As you surely expect by now, I started out with a pint of PBR.
Well, that was really the second pint, the one in the fancier glass, but I won't tell if you won't.
I followed with a bowl of tomato bisque, and on the second sip, I was in love, a love that remained unrequited because of the follow-up cup of spinach and mushroom dip that I slathered all over the olive oil drenched chunks of bread.
I might think The Rocket was flirting with me, except that I know better. Besides, I didn't recognize the sign on the wall from the wrecked race car. It had only hung there since the beginning, and I saw it for the first time tonight. More likely, I'll be washing dishes at this rate.
Then came dessert. Naner pud'n. I rarely order naner pud'n because it's always, and I do mean always, a disappointment. No one, not a soul living or dead, has made naner pud'n right since my grandmother, and I see no reason to set myself up for the sadness.
With the first taste, I figured I was hallucinating. Second taste, nope. This is real. I called over The Rocket and accused her of stealing my grandmother's recipe. She denied the accusation. She denied channeling my grandmother. She then shifted the blame to Nicole, and I professed my need to marry Nicole on the spot, or at least beg for the pud'n's hand in mariage. My need went characteristically unmet.
Shortly, I unwillingly lifted my face from the cup.
I should have gone to the dentist earlier for those crowns I need. Then, I could have eaten the bowl too.