I am a horrible wretched excuse for a human being, but that snotty waiter deserved it. Maybe.

Okay, I'm not really sure why this story popped into my head today.  Maybe because I'm hungry.  Maybe because the very first posts on this blog were about my trip to Italy.  Maybe because sometimes I remember some horrible things I've done and am filled with self loathing.

This post includes all three.

There was a story I left off my original Italian travel postings.

Mainly because I was afraid they'd find me.

You remember the mall parking lot scene from Back to the Future where Doc tells Marty with disbelief, "Oh my God, they found me. They actually found me!"

Doc was talking about Libyan terrorists or something.

I'm talking about a waiter.  In Rome.  A Roman waiter.  Perhaps they are as savage as gladiators.  Or the mafia.  They never forget.

Anyway, maybe enough time has gone by to tell the story.

The story is called: The First and Last Time I did a Dine and Dash in Rome Because that Waiter was a Ginormous Ass and Totally Deserved it!

It was one of our last nights in Rome and I had read a good review of a restaurant.  I don't really remember where, the north part of the city, in one the hills overlooking the Colosseum.  After much trodding up and down cobblestone streets we found the restaurant.

It was dusk.  It was chilly.  We looked at the menu.  It was a little more expensive than most of the restaurants we had gone to, but I figured it would be good.  I looked in through the windows and it was a lovely Osteria style restaurant and about half full.  With locals. Which is a good sign.

The outside of the restaurant had a front terrace with a low wall, so you had to walk through the patio area to the front door.  There was a host at the front door and we said in our best bad Italian, "Good evening!"  Blah blah blah.  And implied we wanted a table for two.

The host nods and disappears into the restaurant.  Eventually he comes back with two menus.  We think we are going inside.  It is warm and lovely and candles and wine and people laughing and eating.

But no.

He puts us on one of the patio table outside, the furthest from the restaurant, in the corner, in the dark.

I am not exaggerating.

We are both sitting there going, "What just happened?"

I say to Matt, "Umm...what is going on?"

Matt says, "I don't know."

I narrow my eyes.  "Yes, you do.  They are assholes.  They don't like us."

"Oh?"

"Because we're Americans."

Now, I obviously can't PROVE this, but it's one of those things that you can't necessarily describe but you know it when it happens to you.  It's like sexual harassment for women.  A look.  An intonation.  A turn of the head.  Just a manner of speaking.  It is sometimes incredible subtle, but it's there.  You can smell it like a fart, hanging in the air, staining everything.

Matt is giving him the benefit of the doubt.  "You think so?"

"I know so."  Now I'm pissed.  "He doesn't even KNOW us!  That dick!"

After a very long time, even by Italian standards, a waiter takes our order.

Other people come and are seated inside.  We are left alone on a dark patio for the entire dinner.

I drink a few glasses of wine and am slightly tipsy.  I'm waiting for the check.  And waiting.  And waiting.

Matt gets up and walks to the sidewalk to light his cigarette.  He smokes and stares into the restaurant.  After a moment he speaks.  "You know, we could just run off right now."

He said the right thing to the wrong person.

"Yeah, ha!  Let's do it!"

He may have thought I was joking, but I'm fueled by a dangerous combination of vino and righteous indignation.  I practically knock the chair to the ground and leap over the wall to the sidewalk.  "Hahaha!  Assholes!"  I run past Matt up the hill and I'm twenty feet down the road before he realizes what his batass crazy wife just did.

He flings his cigarette into the street and starts running after me.  I'm laughing like a loon.

Then a problem happens.  Have you ever tried to sprint a mile, uphill, on wet cobblestones, after eating an entire plate of pesto gnocchi and three glasses of wine?  No?  Well, I don't recommend it.

A hot stabbing pain enters my chest.  Perhaps I'm having a heart attack.  Perhaps the Roman waiter has shot me with a Taser.  Perhaps the Lord himself has reached down to smite me.

I feel like my chest and stomach are going to explode.  "Uuunngghh!"  I bend over and press my fingers into my side, but I'm still scared enough to look back because I hear someone running after me.

It's Matt.  He's wheezing and laughing.  "Hurry!"  I scream.  "Let's go this way."

I ignore the pain and go down a side street.

It turns out to be a dead end.  We ran up the one road that has no outlet.  We are like those idiot people you see on episodes of Cops.

"Shit!"

"Oh my God, we have to go back!"

"They'll see us!"  I really feel like puking now.


Long story short, we walk back and look at the restaurant.  They still haven't come out to bring our check.  We walk quickly past and to another side street that takes us down the hill into a main thoroughfare.  I still want to run and keep looking behind me. I take of my jacket and Matt says, "Yeah, that was interesting."

"He deserved it.  Jerk."

"I bet he really loves Americans now."

We both start laughing.

A while later Matt says, "You know, we only made one mistake."

"Running up the hill?"

"No, we should have ordered the EXPENSIVE bottle of wine."

Origami

Here is what I got for mother's day. A big old caterpillar.


He was delicious.

Matt took me out to our favorite sushi place: Origami. The one place that I want to go to when I want to go out to eat. Something we don't do much anymore. Because I can't make this stuff at home. Believe me, I've tried. My sushi looks like some drunk toddler made it. Next time I attempt it at home I will take pictures. It won't be pretty.

The cake is on fire

This past weekend we celebrated three birthdays.

Matt: 36
Will: 16
George: 2

To celebrate all in one fell swoop, the entire passel headed to The Cheesecake Factory for dinner, or what I call: The place with the never-ending menu.

Seriously, have you seen their menu? It's a book. A picture book of food, drinks, and advertisements for no-wrinkle pants and denture cream.

Because I'm still trying to get off the last few pounds of baby weight I ordered the "Weight Management" salad, which said it was under 590 calories.

590 calories. For a salad. Which makes me wonder what the hell is in the other dinners. A tub of Crisco?

Well, the salad was huge so I only ate half. I made up the other calories by drinking wine. Oh well.

Sena behaved herself. Though it wouldn't matter if she screamed her head off in that place. It sounds like drunk soccer hooligans took over the jet engine test room at NASA. Somebody could get shot in that place and you would think it was just the busboy dropping a bucket of silverware.

So Sena alternated gnawing on her toys and then throwing them on the floor. Matt went to the restroom several times to wash them. Lesson learned: Always bring anti-bacterial wipes. Or a shitload of toys.

Then we went home to open presents. Matt who is 36, going on 12, got golf balls, wiffle baseballs and a really neat wiffle ball bat.

We got George a book and a solar system puzzle. I still feel sorry for Pluto, who is no longer considered a planet.

For Will, who is 16 today, Matt found a funny book called: 400 Secrets of Chuck Norris. Or something like that.

The problem was that Matt didn't READ the book he bought a sixteen year-old boy.

I did.

As I was getting ready to wrap it I decided to read it. I had heard a few funny Chuck Norris lines before.

Chuck Norris doesn't sleep. Chuck Norris waits.

Chuck Norris counted to infinity. Twice.

The boogey man checks his closet for Chuck Norris.

Superman wears Chuck Norris pajamas to bed.


I opened the book and read a really dirty anecdote about Chuck Norris. REALLY DIRTY.
They used words that rhymed with Chuck but started with the letter F.

Then I walked into the other room.

"Umm, Matt? Did you read this book?"

"Huh?"

"You didn't read this book, did you, before you bought it?"

"No, why?"

"Uhhh, maybe you should read this..."

"Oh. Oh! That's pretty bad."

"Yeah, I don't think you want to give a teenage boy this book. At least not in front of his mom."

"Probably not."

"I still have the receipt. You can take it back."

"Ummmm...."

"Or are you going to keep it for yourself?"

"Mmm... maybe for myself."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

Round 2

Okay, so we pass through the green doors into Manny's restaurant. It is packed. People are running every which way. We make our way over to the maitre d'. There is a huge painting of a black bull. Definitely a bull and not a steer; his full masculine glory swinging freely for all to see. Matt turns to me, "Moo, we need a painting like that in our house."
From the people waiting in line to be seated, to the completely filled bar, to the cars still pulling up outside, you would never guess that there is a recession going on. Recession Scheemession.

We check in and we are a little early and the host tell us they can seat us now. They say, "Happy Anniversary!" and I'm thinking, so far so good. Full disclosure: it wasn't our anniversary when we went to the Capital Grille, but I wanted to see what the difference would be between the restaurants. Tonight it actually WAS our anniversary.

The hostess leads us around a corner into the main dining room and leads us to our table. Which was what it was. A table. Not a booth like I had requested. No rose petals. No complimentary champagne. No card. I looked around; there were booths available lining the outside walls and several of them only had 2 people in them. I am a bit put off, but we sit down.

Point: Capital Grille

A word about the restaurant and it's atmosphere. I had not been in the old Manny's but after hearing from several people who had been, the room is done up the same. Gleaming wood floors, dark red subway tiles on some walls, photographs on others and above the booths were brown and white cow hides wallpapered for emphasis, in case you forgot exactly what this place was known for. MEAT! MEAT! MEAT! It's a vegan's nightmare in here; the subway tiles reminding one of what the rooms actually might look like in a slaughter house at the end of the night. I would classify the decor as masculine and classy; there was an old WWII photograph I noticed of General Douglas MacArthur storming the beach with his soldiers, and I had to agree. This is a place the General would go for dinner. BECAUSE MANLY MASCULINE MEN EAT MEAT, DAMMIT.

Another thing. It is brightly lit. It is loud. By loud I mean it has the decibel level of a junior high cafeteria. Or a jet runway. Seriously, it was ridiculous. We were seated 2 feet from tables on either side of us and you couldn't hear what the other people were saying to each other. A couple of times I couldn't even hear what Matt said to me, and had to yell, "What?"

When you are spending $100+ on a meal I feel that this is completely unacceptable.

Point: Capital Grille

Our waiter was nice and because I was a little crabby by this point I decided I'm not ordering a bottle of wine. About half the wines on the list were over $100. I order a glass of Riesling, instead. The waiter assures me it is excellent.

Then another lady comes over with plates wrapped in saran wrap. At Manny's there is a meat cart that is wheeled around the room and has every item on the menu. They show you the tenderloins, porterhouse, new york strip, rib eye, the lobster, the surf and turf, the pork chops and salmon, and something called the bludgeon of beef, which looks exactly like it sounds. It is a gigantic rib eye with the bone sticking out of it. At 55 oz. you definitely could use this as a weapon: it's a bonafide meat cudgel.

We decide to order the shrimp cocktail, creamed spinach, a side of mashed potatoes, and we decide to split the bone-in rib eye, which is a mere 24 oz. For dinner I order a glass of Ghost Pines Cabernet.

The shrimp cocktail is good, the spinach is garlicky, but I preferred the texture of the Capital Grille's spinach. The potatoes were good, covered with cheese, chives and chunks of thick bacon. The side dishes are absolutely enormous, easily feeding 4-6 people. This is why we split the rib eye.

The rib eye is outstanding. Fantastic. Perfect. We ordered it medium, which meant a warm red center. It's not bleeding, but it's definitely red, not pink. It has so much flavor I can't get over it; I'm amazed how good it tastes. It is easily the best tasting steak I've ever eaten. It is definitely better than a New York Strip steak. This, I think, is how meat should taste. We are surprised then by how small it seems. Matt is sad. "This is 24 oz.?" Then I realize that they are including the weight of the bone, because it's a bone-in rib eye. I pick up the bone. "This has to weigh at least 8 oz."

Matt says the rib eye he had at Capital Grille was just as good, if not better, so I guess this one is a draw.

Another thing we noticed. People on either side of us sent their meat back. They had probably ordered "medium" as well, but thought it wasn't done enough. The couple to our left ordered their tenderloins and when they cut into them I saw their meat was mainly gray, hardly pink at all.

These people, I decide, are totally stupid and shouldn't even be allowed in a steakhouse. What an absolute waste of money. If you are that worried about undercooked steak you should stay at home and eat your microwaveable Hot Pockets. I don't know, it might be a Midwestern thing, people who always ordered everything "well-done".

Listen people, if you going to do something wrong, at least do it right. Live dangerously.

We decide that we are too full for dessert. Also, they don't have creme brulee on the menu. If they did, I would have ordered it and done another comparison. We just get coffee, which is also very good.

I walk out of there feeling very conflicted. It was good, but not great. It didn't dazzle me and I was expecting to be dazzled. I wonder if I hadn't gone to the other steakhouse would I have been as disappointed? I decide, that yes, I would still be disappointed. I expect for that price for everything to be outstanding, and I don't think that is asking too much. I had a preconceived idea of what a steakhouse should be like, and Manny's just didn't jive. It was very nice, but I can't see myself going back there, not when there are so many other places that are just as good if not better. For me, I only go to expensive restaurants for a special occasion, maybe 2-3 times a year, and I don't think it's asking to much to expect the total package: Outstanding service AND food AND a nice atmosphere. I care very much about my surroundings, everything from the tablecloth, to the stemware and dishes, to the lighting and music and general feeling that when you walk into this place and hand over your hard-earned money, you're going to get taken care of and given a couple of hours of enjoyable company and a memorable evening. It's not just about the food; it's everything.

We ended up spending a lot more coin at the Capital Grille, but felt we got our money's worth, and a better deal. Go figure.

But you don't have to take my word for it. I could be wrong.

Round 1

Last Friday night we celebrated our 10th anniversary by going out to dinner at a very well-known Minneapolis institution. Manny's Steakhouse.

I've been wanting to try Manny's for several years now, but never got around to it. I also don't have an expense account.

Originally, I had made reservations for the St. Paul Grill, another Twin Cities destination restaurant, but Matt had his little steak-loving heart set on Manny's. So we reserve, several weeks in advance, and the earliest time we could get was 8 p.m.

The new Manny's is now located in the refurbished Foshay building, next to Key's Cafe and also the site of the new snazzy W hotel. The hotel and restaurant had just opened that previous Wednesday, so when we arrived downtown at 7p.m. to check out the place, fancy Hummer stretch limos, Porsches, and other exotic automobiles that scream out, I'M DEFINITELY COMPENSATING FOR SOMETHING, POSSIBLY MY PERSONALITY, were rolling up to the front door. Guys in black suits and earpieces that looked like they were part of a Madonna video circa 1993 were running to and fro, looking frantically important. Well, the W hotel lobby is something to look at, I tell ya. My little podunk self looked around and felt like Dorothy, especially when a young lady sashayed past wearing a mini-mini dress and thigh high boots. Seriously, the dress came to a rest precariously under her bum, and I said to Matt, "Holy Smokes, should I get a dress like that?" Matt looked and said, "Uhhhh..." which I translated to mean, "Go right ahead, and then I have to post your bail when the po-po arrive and arrest you for indecent exposure."

We took the elevator up 30 floors to the observation deck and they had a little museum detailing the history of the Foshay Tower and its creator, William Foshay. The building was modeled after the Washington monument, so it narrows into this cool obelisk. On the 27th floor was Mr. Foshay's old 2-story office, which took up the whole floor. They turned it into another bar, and it was pretty cool. People were lounging on beds and chaise lounges, sipping cocktails, and a crowd of young, Euro trash looking men sat at the bar, with their spiky hair, faux tans, sparkly sunglasses and Armani shirts, laughing wildly and sucking down their Appletinis. It was exactly like a scene from the blog, Hot Chicks with Douchebags. Now I'd seen them in their natural habitat, and I had a sudden urge to gag. Matt snorted disgustedly and we decided to go back down to the lobby to look at the other bar.

The other bar was huge, 2-stories, and looked like an IKEA catalog/Austin Power's/Barbarella super sexy cocktail lounge. Big black velour couches, white sparkly vinyl chairs, purple tufted ottomans, and art deco metal tables and gigantic Bauhaus lamps and funky rugs. The main color scheme was black, purple, white, gray, and chrome.

I ordered a Blood Orange martini and started people watching and tried to eavesdrop, which is a favorite past-time of mine when we go out to restaurants or bars. I can happily sit in a corner and watch people mingle and make bets with Matt on who is on a first date, who is not, and who is trying to pick up someone at the bar and not succeeding.

The martini was $12 and tiny. By tiny I mean it was normal-sized. Which was disappointing. For $12 I want a drink as big as my head and enough booze in it so that it's actually considered a fire hazard. No dice. But it was tasty. They also had food, which we didn't try because we were saving ourselves for our special dinner, but I figured the food was probably like the rest of the place: flashy and fun to look at, but lacking in substance.

We decided to go next door to Manny's to see if we could get seated early. My next post will be my completely biased review of the restaurant, based on my experience.

Excuse me, Waiter!

I was reading an article in the paper about a cook who got 6 months in jail because he put hairs in a customer's steak. He didn't say what kind of hairs... ugh. I also read that the customer had been rude, which is a big no-no.

I have seen this in restaurants before (people deliberately making an effort to be contentious and snotty) and I will never understand why they insist on demeaning the people who serve them food. It's not too smart.

I also try to never send food back. Especially not French Toast.

Bon Appetit!

Stay classy, Minneapolis!

Last Friday night Matt went to play in a poker tournament. He strolls in a 5 in the morning.
"What happened? Did you win?"
"Yep."
"How much?"
"Oh, pretty good." He's always vague.
"What did you play?"
"Texas hold'em."
"Were you playing with a bunch of dumb yahoos?"
"Pretty much."
"Cleaned them out?"
"Yep... this one guy got so drunk. I kept knocking him out but he kept buying back in."
"Aaahhh."
"So what are you going to spend it on?"
"Mmmm....I think steak dinner."

So Saturday night we make reservations at the Capital Grille in downtown Minneapolis. There are about 6 or so very nice steak houses and we hadn't been to any of them but we like the sound of this place. It is ridiculously expensive.

We have reservations for six. I tell them it is an anniversary and they have the table covered in rose petals, a card signed by the staff, and have complimentary champagne for us. Oh goody, they got me at hello!

Our waiter, Scott, was fantastic. When the guy across the aisle hears it is our anniversary he raises his glass to us. Scott assures us that he's a regular, and he looked the type: A retired captain of industry from the Nixon administration who probably made his living doing corporate hostile takeovers and was familiar with pushing fat envelopes of money across tables in dimly-lit restaurants to some beefy guy named Big Paulie, who would then be assured, "Yes, sir, it's taken care of."

You know, THAT kind of guy.

He was sitting with a much younger woman, and me and Matt tried to figure out if she was also the type of date who gets a big tip at the end of the night.

We ordered the shrimp cocktail, and then I did something I've never done. Something I dreamed of, but never had the courage for.

I ordered a whole bottle of wine.

Scott helped us pick it and it was very good. It was a California, Sonoma County, blend of Sangiovese and Cabernet, that went very well with our steaks. This was a big step for me. I still can't bring myself to order orange juice in a restaurant because all I heard growing up was, "Juice is THREE times as expensive in the restaurant! If you want juice you can have some when we get home."

One of the first times I went out with the Braun family for breakfast everyone ordered orange juice and I practically had a stroke and fell off my chair. I kept waiting for a lightning bolt to hit our table or the waitress to tell them what complete fools they were for being so frivolous.

We also had a side of creamed spinach and ordered creme brulee for desert. The food was outstanding; so when our waiter asked how our food was I was busy cramming a hunk of meat into my gaping maw - all I could do was nod and grin and give him a "thumbs up" sign. I might have even had creamed spinach on my chin.

Because I'm a classy lady.

The Bad Seed

We all know people who have a certain je ne sais quoi. People that have a certain effect on us, for reasons unknown. This effect is not always good; but it's always interesting. Our friends Tim and Shelly are such people. They look mild mannered enough, but every time we go out with them, there is always the distinct possibility that one or more of us will end up in jail by the time the night is through. Or at least be issued a warning from law enforcement.

The last time we went out together, the manager of a certain uptown restaurant told us in no uncertain terms not to come back.

The evening last Saturday started like they always do, innocently enough. We tried a little Japanese place for dinner. A little sake and a little wine. We walked next door to a pipe shop and had the following conversation.

"What's the difference between a bong and a hookah?"
"Why can they sell salvia and not marijuana?"
"Why is that glass pipe 30 bucks and that one is 90?"
"Hmmm...maybe THAT one is made from Murano glass."

We go to the Red Dragon and meet up with Karl. We all order Wanderous Punch (rum and juice served in a fishbowl glass that has so much booze in it you could set it on fire). And then we all remark we've never been to the Dragon when it's still light out and agree that it's a complete dive. Tim orders a Zombie and things start getting out of control. When Tim gets drunk he starts acting like Chris Farley in Tommy Boy. Not in a good way. Things start getting political. Tim is a Republican, who also drives a Prius, and starts screeching that he hates McCain and wishes he could vote for Fred Thompson.
"The actor?" I asked.
"So was Reagan!"
I look at him as if that is exactly my point.
Matt says he wanted Hillary for President so Bill could be the first lady.
Then Tim starts yelling that we should go to Liquor Lyle's to celebrate the gay pride festival. "They have 20-for-1's!" he hollers. "And lesbians!"
"You mean 2-for-1?"
"YES!"

By now the squares at other tables are giving us looks. We decide to walk down the street to the C.C. Club.

Now Tim and Matt disappear on the back patio and me and Shelly and Karl sit in the back booth, drinking and contemplating our options. Tim and Matt return, drinking whiskey and cokes. Our political debate continues. Things really start getting loud and Tim kicks the table so hard that it flies out and glasses tip over. Matt starts laughing like a hyena and a skinny, punk kid at a nearby table looks alarmed. I try to imagine what we must look like to him and I start laughing.

We go back to our house and the yelling match continues and because it is nice outside and our new neighbor's windows are open, we realize they can hear everything and are now regretting moving in next door.

They finally leave and Matt lays down. "My tummy feels weird."
"You better go to the bathroom."
After 20 minutes he comes back.
"Did you puke?"
"Yes, it was green."
"Green?"
"All my sushi wrappers."
"You barfed up your whole dinner?"
"Yeah, what a bargain."
"We're never going out with them again."
"You always say that."
"I know."

But he's right, we always go back, like a bad habit we just can't quit. Eventually things get a little dull and everyone needs a little trip to the dark side now and again. Maybe after the election in November. That should be interesting.