It was inevitable that, sooner or later, we would land at this restaurant, a favorite of both of ours. We’ve both seen it grow from a small concern to a Columbia institution (another reason it’s a great place for us). Today, George enjoyed his huevos rancheros so much I got in a word edgewise; though my favorite is the whole menu (and that tempted me, as Frissell was paying), I settled for the smashing chilaquiles, just to taste the unique salsa they’re slathered with. Thanks to a nice lady minding her own business at the bar until George scared the pee out of her and forced his smartphone into her hand, we have a flattering pic of our stop.
When we were asked twice yesterday by people out of the blue where we were eating next, I began to grow nervous: now that we’re popular, what if George isn’t funny next time?
As we sat down this morning, I remarked that Nicole and I were a little sad due to placing two of our kittens with adopters, which led us both to contemplate our own mortality, which led us to compare recent prostate exams…well, things were going off the rails, comedy-wise. Fortunately, George broke the mood by urgently pointing over my shoulder, causing me to turn around and immediately appear to our fellow diners to be wolfishly ogling one of the servers. Embarrassed, I quickly recraned my neck to look askance at George, only to be told, “Her style is a little…granola, isn’t it?” He can get quite nostalgic for his counterculture youth, you see. When he then begin to brag about fixing a clothes rack in his wife Susie’s closet (neither of us are handy men), I knew we were back on track!