N is for Never Eat There

There are so many places in the world to eat. So many, in fact, that books have been written about them books that fill countless shelves in countless bookstores and libraries, and still, people go wrong in choosing a place. Clearly I can’t eradicate the world’s wrongs, not even Atlas, with his broad shoulders and long suffering patience could to that. The feat is so daunting that even Hercules passed on it, choosing something a bit simpler, like throwing the earth into a different orbit.

I want to go on record as saying that I really do like to eat and I really do like food. Not that you could really convince Hula Girl, Doc, Cougar, or even Tuna and Lily White of this, though the latter two might be able to be convinced of this just a bit more easily than the others. Not that they’re jaded, but they’ve just seen me take one bite of something and throw the rest away too many times to think otherwise. Hula Girl is quick to tell the story about the time we all went to a Chinese restaurant in town (it shall remain nameless for the time being, but I’ll say that you can see it from the Popeyes drive through). I had my heart set on pot stickers and chose them from the menu. After watching several other tables (who, I might add, had arrived and ordered after us) get their pot stickers, our waitress informed me that there were none left. I threw a bit of a fit (minor, if the truth be told, just a bunch of questions as to why the other people go theirs and I wasn’t getting mine…I smelled a conspiracy) and ended up ordering a plate of fortune cookies. I was as satisfied as I could be, making a sow’s purse out of the proverbial (and indigestible) pig’s ear. Everyone at the table was convinced that I had had a horrible meal. Not so. 8 fortunes do not a bad meal make. Cougar, however, was seated with a view to the kitchen. You know what they say about viewing the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant…An elderly lady of, oh, I’m guessing here of about 95, sat eating chicken heart chow mien out of the bottom of a cut off gallon milk jug. We never saw the inside of that place again. A Never Eat There place.



I’m as food phobic as the next fellow, likely more so. I’m terrified of the poison meat, of something not quite right, not quite wrong about a meal. As much as I want to warn you away from having a bad meal, what I truly want is to find the all-elusive good meal. For me, a good meal is 1) enjoyed with friends, new or old; 2) tasty and delicious (hell, I’ll be satisfied with just tasty); 3) authentic, meaning it is what it is in the very best way that it can be; and, 4) truly giving of joy.

Really and truly, it’s quite simple: simple food, good friends and good feelings. We’ve got the good friends thing hands down, now, if we can only take care to avoid the stomachaches….