This weekend is a bit of a blur for several reasons (alcohol and difficult bike rides being primary ones), but I couldn’t for the life of me remember what I had scheduled myself to be pissed about, until Amber sent this email…
…I’ll bring the rest of your Caesar salad to the party next weekend…
Oh yeah. That restaurant. And the non-salad.
Ok, I’ll admit it–I was being cheap. I ordered a $6 Caesar as an entrée at dinner. But I also wasn’t extremely hungry, and lets face it I’m not getting any skinnier on the unclerob diet (no offense dude – it works for you, not me). So yeah, this place is already on my nerves a bit, as its full of old people, pink table clothes and a very very bad elevator-music band. The Vodka tonic I ordered was about 78% carbonated water, 2% vodka and 20% pissy bartender. All these by themselves are forgivable, but then they brought out my plate.
Four pieces of lettuce. Dressing. Croutons.
This is not a salad, this is the salad leftovers you feed the rabbit. I have big ears but I’m distinctly unfuzzy. At least I didn’t order the half salad, which was all of three pieces of lettuce. Maybe it was some sort of Easter-season shout-out? Like ‘don’t you feel blessed because you jut got ripped-off for some artfully arranged edible foliage?’ I was sorely tempted to go next door to Sonic, order one of their salads, and walk it back to their kitchen and a visual learning tool. I mean would if kill you to grate some Parmesan on there at least? If the drive through fast food joint next door can swing it, can’t you?
It will be a benefit to mankind as a whole when they level that place and build highway over the smoking crater.