Poor Fred

Much to his chagrin, Fred chose the wrong date for the evening ...

.......... Ruprecht ( STOP )

I Had A Rash ...

... well ... actually, I experienced a rash. Let's put it that way.

And not that kind of rash.

The kind experienced was one of overly-concerned people questioning me about my food choices. This rash has come in a clump - two instances of genuine concern and a third which turned out to be puzzling to say the least.
  
Concern #1 came Sunday morning while at a Mimi's Cafe. I rarely frequent Mimi's (I think the last time I dined in one was 5 years ago or so) but it was the brunchy establishment of choice that morning. (If memory serves it was the only real game in town at the time with regard to a sit-down eatery.) An omelet was the order of the day and I requested one of Mimi's "French inspired" selections, the "Omelette Basquaise." This little number contained Andouille sausage, roasted red peppers, caramelized onions, mushrooms and Jack cheese topped with sauce basquaise, a slightly spicy tomato sauce.

My waitress (who could have been the twin of Camryn Manheim circa The Practice years) asked if I had had that particular dish previously. I responded I had not. "It's rather spicy," she informed me, to which I grinned goofily.

I waved her revelation toward me with exaggeration. "Bring it on. Thanks for the warning but when it comes to spicy foods I highly doubt it will faze me." She said something about it being too spicy for her and acknowledged my response with a smile.

When the dish was served and I'd tasted it, I noted it did have a tangy bite. But that was all. I would bet dollars to donuts that the average person who states a dish is hot would have considered this breakfast indeed to be too hot for them. But it wasn't. It was pleasant enough. It didn't even require a glass of water to help make its way down. It was just fine.

"How is your omelet?" the waitress asked at one point.

"Not nearly spicy enough. But it's just right for me this morning," I answered. 

Concern #2 came later that evening. Out and about all day, the meanderings ended at a Chicago Fire Restaurant which specializes in pizza, salads and wings. I'd never been to one but I was in the (extremely rare) mood for pizza for some reason, something that comes about once every other blue moon. Scanning their menu, I decided on a titular "Chicago Fire" pizza. This little number came with hot Italian sausage, Giardiniera peppers, habanero sauce and jalapeno peppers, the description alone indicating it was on the hot and zesty side.

And again, when the waiter came 'round to take the order, I was asked if I'd had the pizza before. "It's really hot," he decried. "Too hot for me." And, again, I told him to bring it on, thanking him for the warning.

I asked rhetorically of my dining companions what the deal was with my welfare where fiery foods were concerned and left it at that.

And I'll admit: The pizza was hot. But far from unpleasantly so. It was enjoyable in that I was happy with my selection. (I've had cravings for pizza previously and ordered pies which not only were lacking in flavor but were actually steps backward in my desire for future pizza orders.) I'll will further admit it was hot enough to wash down with a second 22 ounce beer. Hot, but not too hot ... and but thoroughly tasty and agreeable.

It was at the last place this week that spurred me to write about the frets various wait staffers had for me, however. Because this one truly befuddled me. 

With errands to be accomplished, it was decided Chick-fil-A was the accepted fast food joint to grab something, eat quick and go. Not having been in a Chick-fil-A many times, I scanned the menu thoroughly. The preferred item turned out to be a spicy chicken sandwich, precisely what I ordered from the scrubbed and attentive cashier behind the counter. But the order came with a question:

"It's all right that the sandwich has pepper jack on it, right?" he queried.

Now ... what I really wanted to do was shoot a snappy comeback at him. (I knew I was a bit tired from a strenuous bike ride earlier and I could tell I was somewhat peckish.)

"Well ... be that as it may, I not only speak English but I can read English well enough to comprehend the menu up there behind you. Thus, I can plainly see Chick-fil-A's spicy chicken sandwich comes with a slice of pepper jack cheese - which is commonly of the zesty cheese variety. Not to mention the description for the item states it's "spicy" so, yes ... pepper jack on the sandwich would be acceptable. I mean, being that I'm ordering that particular item ..." 

Because that's what I really wanted to say.  

I wondered: Did I not appear as if I knew what I was ordering? Was there a confused look on my face when I offered my option? Did I hem and haw while voicing my desire? Was there a weak, uncertain timbre in my response such that I may have been vacillating on what I wanted? Was there some random person standing next to me wearing an "I'm With Stupid" T-shirt with an arrow pointed my way?

But, instead, I simply said "Yes ... that's fine" and accepted the drink cup he offered me with a smile. I didn't understand why he asked that question but I let it be. There was no need.

And, as it turned out, the spicy chicken sandwich at Chick-fil-A wasn't spicy in the least. 

.......... Ruprecht ( won't STOP his "spicy" retorts ... but curbs them every now and again ... ) 961

Chicken Little

Breakfast was being served. 

A big old plate of bacon was being put in the middle of the table, front and center. Toast was present, the coffee had already been poured. We were waiting on the eggs.

When they were finally placed on the table - a table that was to accommodate a party of seven people - there didn't seem to be enough eggs. The bowl put beside the bacon seemed to scarcily contain enough scrambled, fluffy protein to satisfy two people let alone seven.

"Is there an egg shortage in this town we don't know about? A conservation effort? Are eggs rare here? Outlawed? Scarce for the time of year?" I thought to myself.

We were assured it was simply a case of assuming there were enough eggs for breaking our fasts when, in fact, there weren't. Nothing more. A run to the grocery store should have been in order the night before, but it just didn't happen.
 
Still, we were skeptical.

Advance to months later at a local restaurant. It was cold outside. The soup at the establishment was pretty good. Hot, soothing, hearty. Mozzarella sticks were ordered, beer-battered things which were quite tasty. Fried chicken was contemplated and decided upon as a main course ...

... but, when it arrived, it was a sight to behold. Or, actually, it wasn't.

There was barely anything there.

Is this the smallest chicken wing and leg ... ever?

I looked at my meal incredulously. I could hold the entire half chicken ordered in my cupped hands, one atop the other! It was so small, I questioned whether it was an actual chicken. Could it quite possibly be a baby chicken? A pygmy chicken? Mayhap a Cornish game hen ... and a small one at that? Because it certainly wasn't a normal chicken that had been prepared and served. 

I picked up the tiny chicken leg with my thumb and index finger - it was that small. I daintily used the same fingers on my other hand to hold the leg horizontally and began eating it.

You know that scene in "Big" with Tom Hanks? When he attends the Christmas party and spies the mini cocktail corns, picks one up and nibbles at it like a real ear of corn? That's exactly how I ate that dwarf chicken leg, with comical flair and exaggeration. 

The waitress came over and asked if everything was all right. I thought my overt actions toward my meal might be a clue, but she either ignored them or didn't see I was making a point. 

"Everything's fine," I fibbed.

This fried chicken leg is the length of my pinkie.
And, no: The image has not been photo-shopped.

And then it came to me: This was what chickens were like in this town! Small! Miniaturized for some reason! Abnormally tiny! That's why there were so few eggs to be had at breakfast a few months ago! The poor hens! They strain to produce enough eggs for the townsfolk, thus they are a rarity! That had to be it!

I didn't have the heart to make any further fun of these poor folks with their obvious want of a hearty chicken dinner. I desisted my dinner antics.

I finished my meal without another word ...

... but I secretly left the establishment starving ...

...................... Ruprecht ( STOP )