What I last ate Lobster tail, spinach and basil salad, asparagus
What I last drank Water
Song in my head Shame on the Moon
I will not share the horrors of all meals, as I could be here all night. So, to give you a snapshot, I'd like to tell you about my dinner last night:
We got a recommedation for an Italian place and a Mexican place from a fellow we had met with that day. We trusted him. We had no reason not to. Four of us walk into the Italian place. Very empty but it's only 7:30 so it could be alright. My friend Scott grabs a handful of crayons from the basket by the hostess station because, well, we're all obnoxious that way. Not a bad wine list so we all order a glass. The menu is so horrendous I may need to invent adjectives to describe it. Our choices for appetizers, at the ITALIAN place, include: onion rings, quesadillas, chicken fingers, nachos, fried calamari. We didn't run away right then. No, no. We had to wait for the waiter to spill Scott's wine. He put the glass down on a crayon. Needless to say, the waiter confiscated our crayons. We MAY be able to get them back at the end of the semester...
We decided to order the fried calamari while we finish perusing the rest of the menu. No spaghetti. No lasagna. No manicotti. No ravioli. All weird things that don't quite go together. There were even two dishes (of the 9) that were served with a creamy dill-mustard sauce. What the hell is that about? The fried calamari comes and we're all handed plates with the following items on them: a piece of romaine lettuce, a lemon and chopsticks. Chop fucking sticks. I'm not lying. You could not make this stuff up. The calamari is not a nice golden brown fried color. It is beige. It is manilla file folder color. And we're starving.
Scott will eat anything. He is a big round man who loves food. Scott can't even bear this stuff and ends up spitting bite four (he was a trooper) into his napkin. We all tried to cover up the calamari taste with the marinara sauce. It was clear that one of the ingredients in this sauce was mustard. Horseradish mustard. Hand to God. We leave. Quickly.
We had planned to go to this dive honky tonk bar across the street. We were told by at least three people, mind you, NOT to go to said bar. It's got loud country music, old men in hats, only Bud on tap and the only other liquor has a man's name in the title. These people have only met our mild mannered alter egos so little do they know this is right up our alley.
There is a sign out front stating that they have "dining." This has got to be better that the rubberbands posing as squid we just had. We sit down and the waitress informs us that they are not serving food that night. They had food LAST night. You read that right. My dinner is now clearly Jack Daniels on the rocks. But we did love the bar and the waitress felt so bad she tried several times to find us something to eat. We passed on the only thing she could muster up: a bag of beef jerky. I wish I was kidding about that.
On the way back to the hotel, which could be another diary entry in and of itself, we go through a drive through to get food to absorb the vast amount of liquor we've consumed. Can I give you a bit of advise? Jack Daniels and Jack in the Box? Not friends. My stomach and I are in a fight now.
I think I'm done with Southern California for a while. And calamari. And Jack in the Box. I still plan on drinking Jack Daniels.