As open-minded as I consider myself, creature of habit I am at heart. The gut holds the most important organ in your body, and this is why we must always trust it. Or, at least, so says the wise author of this post.
On a recent girl-date to one of my most frequented restaurants, we were greeted with a minimum hour-and-a-half wait. Good for them. Bad news for the empty vortex that was my stomach.
But, as Fate should have it, our dinner location had been a toss-up anyway, so we went with our back-up plan. To a place about which I had many reservations. A place where I never felt quite at ease. A place we’d frequented to quench a parched tongue or lend an ear to musical entertainment, but never to satiate an appetite, so off we went.
We were seated almost immediately, and were waited on by the most enthusiastic of waitresses. However, what transgressed over the next seventy-five (75!) minutes will not only test the theory behind this post’s opening proverb, but will also answer the question of why I haven’t touched on the subject of what I actually ate.
I figure, if I had to wait an hour and fifteen minutes for a mediocre pimento cheese and pickle sandwich (out of all Sandwiches and Main courses, the sole vegetarian option) then so should you. If I didn’t see said bubbly waitress for the last 30 minutes of my time spent in hunger purgatory, then you should also be kept in suspense.
If the reason I was given as to the mysterious whereabouts of my food was, “We weren’t busy Thursday, so we didn’t plan on this crowd tonight (a payday Friday),” and the compensation I was offered wasn’t for my $9 meal, but for another round of drinks to accompany my still-empty stomach, then you should be left disappointed, too.*
Sorry, Gut. Never again will I go against Your will.
203 N. Lombardy Street