We’d arranged to meet at the Glen, as had several thousand other people (well, they were meeting THEIR mates. Jo’s really not that popular). We gave the parking lot a once-over and decided that since we hadn’t succeeded in finding a park right away, we should quit (an attitude I recommend for all fields of life), settling instead for a space down a dark alley in front of an abandoned construction site. Prime, brutha.
The hike back to the Glen was long and arduous. We climbed many mountains and crossed many freeways, the latter made easier by pushing the homeless out into the traffic. Needless to say (as I am not one to complain or exaggerate), by the time we reached our destination we’d worked up quite an appetite and could probably give a few starving nations a lesson in hunger. Our minds and endurance weakened thus, and knowing only that we wanted “some kind of.. Asian”, we naturally piled into the first suitable-looking joint that would admit us.
It was clear from the beginning that we’d found an anomaly among restaurants, the menu providing the first sign of danger. I am personally a fan of a simple menu, being that less choices help prompt a decision (a handy tactic for the hungry). Sure, sometimes you’ll have 3 or 4 pages, making life a little harder but still manageable. This restaurant, I kid you not, thought variety the spice of life, and spread our options out over about, ooh.. forty pages! If the amount of food wasn’t confusing enough, the restaurant was also having an identity crisis and allowed us to choose from every kind of food in the wooorld. The menu was divided into different cultures, including “Western” for the miscellaneous (heaven forbid they miss anything). You could have nachos, pasta, a steak sandwich, lobster (you know, if you were suddenly feeling a bit fancy at this Frankenstein establishment), eel, crocodile… As well as the mishmash of cuisine, there were so many damn animals to choose from that we fancied the restaurant was keeping a mini-zoo out back!
When we ask the waitress to explain “chiffon” sauce, simply for the assurance that it wasn’t shredded material (hell, they had everything else) we were surprised when she gave an answer. Although, I imagine the only prerequisite for that job was to sit a 50 page quiz on the menu alone, and damn your service skills. Unconvinced all the same that the cook could do a decent job of every meal, I went for what I assumed would be a “safe”, healthy option and ordered chicken teriyaki (or, item 2028, as Jo pointed out!). We had also ordered entrees, so when a plate of fatty chicken steak arrived, devoid of vegies and splattered with bottled sauce, I hoped it was one of those and not my meal. ‘Twas in vain. Not that we fared much better with the entrees. We had forgone an order of rice paper rolls for a “similar” dish that the waitress recommended. Apparently, rice paper rolls and deep fried.. something can be easily confused. How did you pass your menu quiz, woman?!
Ben and Jo did ok with their meals (smug little bastards), but Duwey ordered a terrible pasta dish and was aiming to drown out the flavour when he requested some chilli. With a look of disgust, the passing waiter raised his hand as an insistence for patience, and disappeared without a word. When he returned (which was also to our anstonishment!), he slammed down the chilli and again stormed off in silence. So sorry to trouble you, sir! I guess he was wise to your game, Duwey.Although the meal was a disaster, we miscellaneous Westerners (plus one) couldn’t help but laugh. The clincher was when Ben finished his cup of tea and found a short, curly hair at the bottom. I’m glad he could look at the bright side of that one! We weren’t having so much fun, however, that we were willing to take our chances with dessert (of which the choices were also plentiful, of course) and moved on to a regular café. My effort to be “healthy” was thrown to the wind in my state of delirium and, intending only to order a coffee, I found myself sitting before a fat slice of lemon tart and a moccacino. It appeared magically, so the calories don’t count.
The laughs did continue at the next venue, but you should never tickle my funny bone in public - The night ended on me humping the air in imitation of my friends having sex, as you do. I blame the magic sugar.(Oh, and we also did all that stuff in the Katy Perry song. I wouldn't want to mislead you.)
PUBE ALERT! Well, at least it may have been disinfected (or just steeped) by the hot tea-water.
ReplyDeleteI say you earned that moccacino and lemon tart - the calories in your bad meal didn't count, so you definitely didn't go over when you had decent fare at the cafe. OM NOM NOM!