February 8, 2012
You may recall that last week my friend Saarah and I had an interesting dinner at Buffalo Wild Wings, where the silverware was apparently sold to pay the wait staff and the cherries were going for $45 per pound on the black market. Undaunted, (seriously, we refused to be daunted) we decided that this week we’d give sushi a try.
Since we both live in Brooklyn and there are more Japanese restaurants in Brooklyn than you can shake a stick at, and believe me I tried, we decided to find one in our area. Or more accurately, it was decided that I would find one in the area. I knew of three nearby and one of them was out- Saarah had had a fight with a waiter there. I found reviews online for the other two I knew. One of them had mixed food reviews but the decor was excellent, with a rock garden and waterfall in the lobby and booths where you take off your shoes and sit on the floor. The other one had better food reviews but standard decor. I left the choice up to Saarah and she picked the one with the Japanese booths.
She had a half-day of work so I met her there in the evening and we went in. I was very excited. I even wore clean socks and washed my feet. You never know when the mood to play footsie might strike.
It was close to 6 o’clock on a Friday and the place was empty. Literally. We were the only two customers. Hmmm, that should have been a sign. The waiter brought us to a booth and we took off our shoes and sat down with some difficulty. Rather than sit on the floor, there was a pit for our feet so we could sit normally, albeit at floor level. The difficulty was maneuvering our legs beneath the table which was very low and left only a small space for us in which to sit and tuck in our legs.
The maneuvering accomplished we ordered and before long our food arrived. I was starting with miso soup and Saarah got salad. Not just any salad, but a Japanese Surprise Salad. I’m sure you know what a Surprise Salad is. It is a salad with a hair in it.
A long one.
And that was it. Saarah shoved the hair with the salad (it was no longer a salad with a hair) at me because it was me who picked the restaurant so of course it was my fault. (And if you read the second paragraph above and thought “Hey, she picked the restaurant!” we’ll just pretend that never happened. She certainly did.) The waiter took his time coming over and when he did he seemed neither concerned nor surprised. He asked, unbelievably, if Saarah was going to finish the salad.
At this point she had her shoes back on and was putting on her coat to leave.
I got up to leave, the waiter walked away, and in the background from the kitchen we heard “where are they going? I’m cooking all their food!”
Not an apology, not a word as we walked out.
The rest of the evening? Grilled chicken salad at a pizzeria, arguing with a Chinese tea salesman, and vegetable shopping.
And now, last night.
Saarah and I found ourselves at Applebee’s and as she was eating her French fries what did she find?
A hair.
Her hair.
For the record, Applebee’s had zero part at all of the hair ending up in her food. Saarah was playing with her hair and it fell in.
Not that it was any less disgusting.
Next time we go out, I am going to insist that she, I, and everyone involved in the making and serving of our food wear one of these:
Your Comments