Failure of the Day: Booze Slurpees
(It was going to be "imagination" and followed by a long rant on why the war on CNN is somewhat disappoiniting because the effects just aren't as good as those in movies, and that might only be due to the fact that we don't have a wide-screen TV, but I don't feel like returning to Our Regularly Scheduled Grimness yet. For those who miss it, Chris will be in Florida all next week, and I guarantee that will make me dour as hell.)
Instead though, lets talk about Mexican food. It's hard to be a strictly conceptual eater, but most of my existence is centered in my mouth and if a kind of food doesn't seem like somethnig I would like, a person who wants to get me to try is going to have to go to extreme measures to get me to open my maw. Many have tried. Only two people to date have succeeded. Because of those two people, I now know the pleasures of pineapple (thanks, Nana) and burritos. I was peer-pressured into finally trying a burrito for the first time when I was 31, and I had one of those "Where have you been all my life?" kind of moments. But my foray in Mexican food stopped there. I've been to Mexican restaurants before on dates and such and I managed to move the stuff on my plate around enough so that it looked like I had eaten a bit of it, but I never really did. It doesn't help that everything has this sauce on it that is the color of clay. The color alone makes it seem gritty to me, so conceptually, I just can't get behind that that sauce.
So there is a restaurant on our corner called Tia Margarita, and it's suppsed to have good food and exceptional margaritas. (Have I mentioned that I don't drink either?) Chris really wants to go. I know this because I am intuitive and in tune with his needs and because last week when we were picking our Friday night dinner place, he said "I really want to go to Tia Margarita." I said "Sure!" in a tone of voice that anyone else on earth would have thought meant "sure!" but that Chris knew really meant "I want spaghetti again" and so we went to Ernesto's for the second week in a row. (In my defense, I have been a super good sport about always ordering pizza from Round Table, which is his favorite, instead of from Milano's, which is my favorite and clearly and objectively better.)
But now it's Friday again, and Chris is getting tired of spaghetti. I can't in good conscience make him eat any more pasta. And Tia Margarita is probably a very good restaurant. And he really deserves those booze slurpees after spending all week wrestling with the protesters who continually threaten to shut down the bay bridge and seriously fuck up his commute. And they will probably be able to make me something without the clay sauce.
So OK! Tia Margarita! I'm psyched! I'm pumped! And just to prove that I'm not just writing all this so Chris will read it and say, "no, no we don't have to go!" I promise to include a full restaurant review in my next entry.
(It was going to be "imagination" and followed by a long rant on why the war on CNN is somewhat disappoiniting because the effects just aren't as good as those in movies, and that might only be due to the fact that we don't have a wide-screen TV, but I don't feel like returning to Our Regularly Scheduled Grimness yet. For those who miss it, Chris will be in Florida all next week, and I guarantee that will make me dour as hell.)
Instead though, lets talk about Mexican food. It's hard to be a strictly conceptual eater, but most of my existence is centered in my mouth and if a kind of food doesn't seem like somethnig I would like, a person who wants to get me to try is going to have to go to extreme measures to get me to open my maw. Many have tried. Only two people to date have succeeded. Because of those two people, I now know the pleasures of pineapple (thanks, Nana) and burritos. I was peer-pressured into finally trying a burrito for the first time when I was 31, and I had one of those "Where have you been all my life?" kind of moments. But my foray in Mexican food stopped there. I've been to Mexican restaurants before on dates and such and I managed to move the stuff on my plate around enough so that it looked like I had eaten a bit of it, but I never really did. It doesn't help that everything has this sauce on it that is the color of clay. The color alone makes it seem gritty to me, so conceptually, I just can't get behind that that sauce.
So there is a restaurant on our corner called Tia Margarita, and it's suppsed to have good food and exceptional margaritas. (Have I mentioned that I don't drink either?) Chris really wants to go. I know this because I am intuitive and in tune with his needs and because last week when we were picking our Friday night dinner place, he said "I really want to go to Tia Margarita." I said "Sure!" in a tone of voice that anyone else on earth would have thought meant "sure!" but that Chris knew really meant "I want spaghetti again" and so we went to Ernesto's for the second week in a row. (In my defense, I have been a super good sport about always ordering pizza from Round Table, which is his favorite, instead of from Milano's, which is my favorite and clearly and objectively better.)
But now it's Friday again, and Chris is getting tired of spaghetti. I can't in good conscience make him eat any more pasta. And Tia Margarita is probably a very good restaurant. And he really deserves those booze slurpees after spending all week wrestling with the protesters who continually threaten to shut down the bay bridge and seriously fuck up his commute. And they will probably be able to make me something without the clay sauce.
So OK! Tia Margarita! I'm psyched! I'm pumped! And just to prove that I'm not just writing all this so Chris will read it and say, "no, no we don't have to go!" I promise to include a full restaurant review in my next entry.
posted by Nancy @ 2:17 PM
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