Welcome to the Monkeyhouse
My poor, poor husband.
Yesterday sucked balls. Just way, way, too long. Starting work at 8 a.m. and finishing at 9 p.m. just blows. Hard.
Late last night in the bar section at Zuni, there was a party goin' on. And by that I mean that us and the tables around us were having a yee haw inducing time.
After one table didn't finish some of their fries, a testosterone table next to us (4 men, 2 chickens and some red wine) berated them. I chimed in wholeheartedly. I think I even accused them of breaking one of the Commandments.
That same underachieving table sat considering dessert. They read of the list of available items that evening (we had not yet seen the menu) and they got to my baby girl: The Caramel Pot de Creme.
And so I did what any good restaurant whore would do. I shouted "YOU HAVE TO GET THAT." Jon slid under the table.
No, I was not drunk.
They did get it (2 actually), making me order it for them because they couldn't pronounce it.
In my defense, I said I'd pay for their dessert if they didn't like it.
I'm guessing the money would be better spent on therapy for Jon, before he becomes too afraid to take me out in public.
"To eat is a necessity. To eat intelligently is an art."
-- La Rochefoucauld