My days are now generally filled with nothing more glamorous than scrolling around on the database at work looking for corrupt data and then coming home, exhausted, to cram unappetizing foodstuffs into my mouth and then falling asleep over a game of spider solitaire (because that monkey is still on my back).
However, I did glam it up a bit two weekends ago with my cosmopolitan friend, Annie, who was just featured in that day's Irish Times Magazine as a blogger to be reckoned with. The bf and I met up with her for dinner at a Moroccan restaurant off of Grafton Avenue that held the allure and mystery of Northern Africa via shadowy candle light, filmy scarves draped just so and the scent of foreign cuisine presented in clay pots. When we arrived this is how it went down:
Me: Hi, I have reservations for 3 at 9:00 under Logan
(Reservations = classy joint and 9:00 = the European dining hour. I am such a grown up!)
Maitre d' in open shirt, chest hair exposed: Ah yes, I have a table for you in the tent. This way.
Me: (thinking) Tent? No one said anything about a tent.
We were then led away from the afore mentioned exotic decor of the dining room interior and instead seated at a table...inside a fucking tent. 'Grown up' was quickly downgraded to cotton candy on a stick and the faint musk of elephant urine. Our big top dinner had just begun.
Aside from the glare of the bare light bulbs unceremoniously clamped to the apex of the tent, the evening's company was a delight. I finally slapped eyes on Annie's fabled €300 boots (I'm a believer), heard all of her grand plans for cross-country travel in the States come October, and squeezed the bf's hand whenever he said something brilliant and/or witty, which was often. These things made up for the fact that the food was not only bad, but also horribly overpriced (€6 for a piece of pita with tomato paste smeared on it? Come ON!). The restaurant must have sensed my displeasure, so to redeem itself it offered me the olive branch of food poisoning, a strain of which so enjoyed itself in my lower bowels it decided to extend its stay for two full days and nights.
I have a reservation for this Friday at a fancy new fish and chips pub. They said they'll be seating me in the bleachers. I wonder if I should worry.
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I just realised the other day that I made a horrible dining faux-pas. I think my reluctance to leave a tip meant that I actually pocketed some of your money. Or Manus's money. I will have to make this up to you over dinner this weekend...?
If that happened, we did not detect it. Buy yourself something pretty and wear it to dinner this weekend!
Did you see Moe Rocca?
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