You know how I’m a picky eater and I won’t eat stuff simply because I don’t like the sound of it? Well, on Saturday I met my BFF Lisa Gioia-Acres and her cooler-than-moi daughter, Adrian, for lunch at the Texas de Brazil steakhouse in Town Square. Why so fancy-schmancy? It was Adrian’s birthday and she’s worth it.
Anyway, you know me and my whole “food is just future shit” take on fine dining, but this place was yum. And by “yum,” I mean the waiters. Holy crap, I am totally NOT the let’s-go-see-the-Chippendales type—au contraire—but there is something to be said for having extremely nice looking men wait on you.
I got to thinking. Men, God love them, can have their Hooters, but wouldn’t it be cool to have a restaurant chain that catered to women? But not in the male stripper vein; I’m talking a classy place with napkins you feel guilty getting your lipstick on, and refined, polite waiters who live to make sure you have a pleasurable dining experience.
Feel free to take that idea and run with—I doubt I’ll be opening a restaurant anytime soon.
Well, in addition to the service, the food was delicious and when our waiter brought around the desserts to choose from, I opted for the crème brulee. I don’t know what possessed me to order that because I am NOT an adventuresome eater, but for some reason I thought it would have chocolate in it.
As it turned out, it didn’t, but it tasted fine. Until Lisa said, “Do you know what that is? It’s egg custard.”
Freakin’ eggs are not dessert food! And I don’t like the sound of custard. I put down my spoon.
“What, you’re not going to eat it now?” Lisa said, in the same tone I heard her address her 7-year-old grandson.
“No, I’m just full,” I replied.
In reality, part of me was ready to cry because I couldn’t believe I ate half a bowl of freakin’ egg custard and I should have gotten the chocolate cake and it’s pretty bad when even you realize you’re the most immature person on earth on top of the fact that I just lied to my dear friend on her daughter’s birthday.
Mind you, I could eat three hot dogs in a sitting. Pig lips and anuses, right?
It’s not easy being me.