Tag Archives: restaurants

going for the goal 2013 #3: royal pursuits

15 May

Listen, if there is one common love in the McPolish-Swede household it is this:

Fried. Chicken.

I’m not kidding. Being from the south suburbs of Chicago, Swede and I grew up with some heavy, heavy South Side influences:

  1. Graduation parties are hosted in your garage;
  2. All Hail the White Sox;
  3. Red pop doesn’t have a specific berry-related flavor, it’s just Red Pop; and
  4. Fried chicken is an essential element to every gathering.

That last one has proven critical throughout my lifetime—fried chicken is present at every tailgate, eaten out of the trunk of a car. It’s at every graduation, first communion, and baptism party, alongside a huge tinfoil container of mostaccioli and a huge tinfoil container of thinly sliced roast beef. Hell, if I remember correctly, my sister had fried chicken at her rehearsal dinner.

Mind you, this isn’t the South, it’s the South Side. So when I say fried chicken, I’m not talking about some wizened grandma swinging around a cast iron pan like it’s a feather pillow and frying up amazing chicken using an old family recipe. I’m talking about South Side delicious fried chicken. And South Side fried chicken comes from Harold’s, or it comes from the deli counter at the grocery store. One time it came from a gas station in Northwest Indiana. And if you order enough pieces, it comes in what looks like a bankers box lined with tinfoil to keep it warm.

This is all to say that when we traveled to Nashville a couple weekends ago, and more than one person hollered at me that my life depended on tasting the goods at Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack, I made quick work of getting our Chicago patoots to the joint.

Hot chicken is a Thing in Nashville, and thank God for it. It’s not that it’s temperature-hot—though it is that, too—it’s that the hot is fried right into the batter, embedding the crispy, just-slightly-greasy-enough fried chicken skin and meat with heat. I got the medium, which was plenty hot for me (who does enjoy some spice and heat), and Swede got the hot, which he could enjoy once his tastebuds adjusted to the shock of intense heat.

Bawwwwk! Enough babbling, though, right? On to brass tacks, yes? Yes.

Going for the Goal #3: Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack

The restaurant itself nothing special by way of décor, and the place is in a dicey looking neighborhood, but all that is easily and happily pushed aside when you realize what delectable await you.


The Cake Lady. Before you even get to the ordering window you will encounter a congenial woman sitting behind a card table laden with thick, large, individually contained squares of baked goods. Chess pie. Red velvet cake. Strawberry chess squares. Hummingbird cake. All sitting there looking so happy you will want to love on each and every piece. I recommend loving on the strawberry chess squares. They will love you right back. And then you will both be in love with the Cake Lady for bringing you and your cake mate together in sweet, sweet harmony.


The Sides. Yes, the chicken is delicious, if you haven’t gotten that already. Yes, it is hot. Yes, you will feel fat and happy after devouring it. But also do yourself a favor, and devour a side or two with the chicken. There are only a few to choose from—baked beans, coleslaw, French fries, and pickles. Swede was a big fan of the coleslaw—a nice way to cool down your mouth from the chicken, and frankly, I practically did backflips over the fact that you can order a side of pickles. Like, your own personal Styrofoam cup of dill chips.

I don’t know if you know this about me, Interwebers, but This Girl? Loves her some dill pickles in any form. Almost as much as pizza. And fried chicken.

And whatever you do, don’t overlook the white bread upon which the chicken rests. It’s not an extra side, per se, it’s just part of the chicken package. It’s both functional AND scrumptious, soaking up the juice and the hot and the fried bits of the chicken, transforming a blah slice of industrial white bread that cannot be healthy for you in any way into a dreamy taste of heaven that…also…can’t be healthy for you in any way. But it doesn’t matter! It’s heaven! No such thing as bad-for-you-foods in heaven. Ta-da!


The Staff. Holy Mary Mother, people. I don’t know if it was because we were in the South, or if it is just the nature of the people in the joint, but dear Lord was everyone kind and (seemingly) happy to meet you. I mean, come on. I’m from the Midwest—I know from friendly. Clearly we can pick up some pointers at the very least from the woman working the register at Prince’s, who thanked me for joining them that afternoon. Sheesh. The pleasure’s all mine, ma’am, thanks for the food.

The Cons:

The Wait. With each order made as soon as you pay, it is inevitable that you will have to wait for your freshly fried chicken. And now, since Prince’s recently won a James Beard award (and also, it should be noted, a Steve Harvey “hoodie” award), lines will surely grow longer than they already are as foodies flock to this joint. (Get it? Flock? Ha.) Moral of the Story Part I: Go hungry, but not about-to-faint-famished, because, Moral of the Story Part II: a 30 to 45 minute wait is totally normal. Maybe bring a snack. And a book. And wear comfortable shoes because there aren’t many places to sit, and most likely the seats will all be taken by the time you get there anyway.

It’s Cash Only. And they don’t take personal checks, either. (Who writes checks anymore, anyway?) It’s not a huge con, but for someone like me who rarely carries cash, it was something I kept reminding myself about before we left: Don’t spend the little cash I DID have in my wallet, otherwise I’d be a sad, fried chickenless McPolish. And that’s no fun for anyone.

On a scale of one to go? If you’re in Nashville, don’t chicken out—Prince’s is an awesome experience that will set your fried chicken-loving heart—and mouth—aflame.

Three down, 10 to go. 


going for the goal 2013: how is it april, and this is only #2?

10 Apr

Back in like, September or something, when sunshine and warmer weather still existed on a consistent basis, I trekked out to the Morton Arboretum with Sister #1, my brother-in-law, and the Chicken Nugget and Ronnie Bass to take some family photos.

You know why?

Because Aunt Molly is awesome like that. And mildly better than Sears Portrait Studio.

A couple of months later, Sister #1 and brother-in-law very kindly took Swede and me out to dinner as a thank you for the photo shoot. Granted, Swede wasn’t there for the photo shoot, but he did later ooh and ahh appropriately over the photos, and that, as we all know, is an essential contribution to my photography process as an Artiste.

Or something.


Anyway, the point is they treated us to a marvy little spot in downtown Oak Park, that I just have to tell you about.

Going for the Goal 2013

Number Two: Marion Street Cheese Market


The booze. Swede was stoked to learn that Marion Street Cheese Market (MSCM) had a good selection of beers on tap. When we were there, a few local breweries, like Revolution, were available, which made Swede happy, along with some others he wanted to try.

So many beers, so little time.

For me, I was stoked to see a variety of wine and champagne flights on the menu. I do love a good flight. Sister #1 and I chose the Sparkletown flight, because, Hi. It’s called Sparkletown.* And I want to live there forever.


*And in my head (and mayhaps out loud) I kept saying, “This! Is! SPARKLETOWN!” in the voice of the guy who introduces Jeopardy.

Writing on the menus. It may be childish, but I love when restaurants encourage you to write and take notes on their menu. Especially a place like MSCM, where you’re trying multiple offerings and small plates, and the selection is big—you need to remember in some way, shape, or form which cheeses and/or pates and/or charcuteries you want to taste, amirite? Plus it makes me feel less bad about defacing property, which I’m wont to do whether you encourage me or not. Also, if you’re bored, you can always use the menus to play MASH. And that’s never a bad thing. (Not that I was bored at MSCM; I was in good company. But say you went with a person or people who sucked? See? Then the write upon menus would be your savior.)


Camped seating. As with Gaetano’s, MSCM’s tables seemed really squashed together to me. Is this becoming a “thing” in restaurants? Where we all sit in each others’ laps to enjoy a meal? Because if so, I may have to call off this project and eat exclusively at home in my comparatively lusciously and exorbitantly spacious kitchen table chairs.

Lighting. There’s a very good chance that my overall vision issues in this place were due to my trip to Sparkletown. Nonetheless, MSCM is not the best-lit restaurant I’ve ever been in, which probably makes me sound like an old fogey when I’m all, “What’s that say? I can’t see so good.” I just want to be able to read the menu clearly, Interwebers, so I can properly decipher what kind of cheese I should order to shove down my gullet next. A little more wattage, if you would, please, MSCM. And hey you damn kids, get off my lawn!

On a scale of one to go? If you’re in the neighborhood, it’s a gouda place for a bite eat.

Two down, eleven to go.


productive goal keeping, or, restaurants where people ask you very important questions

17 Oct

Back in January (WHAT? It’s been a hectic year, okay?) my friends Smell and Jeremiah came into town, and as a thank you for picking them up at O’Hare on a Friday night during rush hour, they offered to take Swede and me to dinner.

*Note to readers: Will chauffeur for food.

Swede happened to have an about-to-expire deal voucher for Tre Kronor, a Swedish restaurant up on the north side of the city, and we decided there was no better time to put it to use. And thus, check another goal off my 2012 goal list.

(And no, for the record, Swede does NOT only eat at Swedish restaurants, nor is his fridge stocked three-deep with lingonberry jam. [Though maybe it should be. It’s delicious.] Save for approximately five or six specific items, Swede will eat just about anything from any cuisine. And I’m sure he’d be happy to come over for dinner and prove this to you himself.) (Check your day runner, Swede! You’re about to get some dinner plans!)

So! Tre Kronor!

I should preface that my enjoyment of this restaurant was twofold. Not only was the food delicious, but no matter what, this restaurant will always have a special place in my heart, as I was asked a very, very important question that night at dinner.

“McPolish, will you marry us?”

I was shocked. Flattered. Taken aback. Humbled. Overjoyed. You guys, for real, officiating a wedding has been on my life list for some time! And I don’t have to wear a frilly dress with dyed-to-match shoes! All of these thoughts and feelings ran through my mind when Smell and Jeremiah asked. And of course, when I got done being all bug-eyed and flabbergasted that they had asked, I said yes.

That’s right, my friends, I am now, thanks to the Universal Life Church, available for weddings.

*Note to readers: Will marry people for food.

So my feelings on Tre Kronor may be a bit colored by rose-tinted, civil unionizing glasses. I just can’t help it.

Restaurant #3 of 12: Tre Kronor


Intimacy. Not the canoodling kind. I mean, if you want to canoodle over your strudel (wait, that’s German. I think. Whatever. Go with it.) you can, but I mean that the restaurant, while small, didn’t feel cramped to me. It just felt like a cozy dinner party.

Swedish meatballs. Heh. I said balls. If you think Ikea is the penultimate Swedish meatball, think again. And go to Tre Kronor and try theirs. Or try the pork dish stuffed with…apples?…maybe?…If I remember correctly?…Either way, great food options all around.

Parking. You might find it silly to consider this such a “pro” thing, but have you ever BEEN to the north side of Chicago? Parking there sucks. SUCKS. It’s Sucky McSuckerton, which is why I typically avoid the north side at all costs (except when friends are in town and there is corn to be had). But Tre Kronor is far enough north that parking isn’t an issue.


BYOB. That isn’t a con for the restaurant, actually. That’s more just a con for ME because OMG WHAT IF I FORGOT TO BRING BOOZE WITH ME?

Lighting. While I appreciate the aforementioned intimacy, I could stand for a few more wattages overhead as it was a little hard to read the menu (and take photos of our yummy food, unfortunately. Can you even tell the brie in the picture was delicious? And had apples and honey accompanying it? No? Exactly. Word to the wise, your grandmother with cataracts will probably as you to read her the menu). Though I don’t know that more light would have made a difference, as I pretty much rushed into the restaurant with Swedish meatballs on my mind, no menu needed.

Tre Kronor, on a scale of one to go?

Fortsätt äta!

Three down, nine more to go. 

being all productive and whatnot: going for the goal

4 May

So back in January, as I was putting together my goals for this year, I was looking at my list and realized quickly it was rather…lacking in the excitement department. Don’t get me wrong, I have some terrific goals set for myself this year, but they’re just so…responsible, like save money and be kind to spiders. I asked the Swede what was on his list and he immediately said jumping out of an airplane.

Jumping out of an airplane is WAY cooler than anything I came up with.

Though to be fair, the thought of skydiving makes me wet my pants when I have both feet on the ground, so believe me when I say I don’t think that’s going to be the pizazz added to my list.

So I thought and thought and hemmed and hawed and wrung my hands in an anxious manner for a month or so, until it came to me. A simple, yet fun goal to strive for in 2012, one that fit my personality to a T: Visit 12 new restaurants and blog about it.

And lo!, dear Interwebers! How I have attacked this goal with gusto! And of course have forgotten to bring my camera with me to half the places! But thankfully I’ve remembered on several occasions, and on others have at least had my phone with me to take a few semi-okay plate shots.

So join me, won’t you? For a recap of my first step toward achieving one of my 2012 goals as I pay a visit to: the Publican.

A few weeks ago, my sweet friend, whom I shall refer to as The U, and I made plans for brunch. I love brunch. It’s entirely possible that it is my favorite meal of the weekend. How can it not be? Have you ever BEEN to a brunch buffet? Two words for you: OMELET. STATION. Two more words for you: CARVING STATION.

If I ever die in public, I hope it’s at brunch. But not until I’ve had my share of sausage patties and/or links.



Through a quick text exchange we decided to meet at the Publican, which we were both delighted about. I was surprised that The U suggested it, however, as the Publican’s big thing is being all about meat, in particular, pork. Sausages, pork belly, bacon, if it is on or comes from a pig, they want you to eat it. And The U? The U hasn’t eaten pork in about 15 years. But whatever, we happily made our way to the restaurant.

I won’t bore you with details, because that’s what serious restaurant critics are for. So here’s what you need to know about brunching at the Publican. (I can’t vouch for their dinner, but I can say that the menu looked like it would amazing your f-ing pants off.)



*The food. Holy pants, this was some delicious brunch. Particularly, as I mentioned, if you are a carnivore, and being a McPolish, I can’t help but be, amirite? I mean, I guess I could be anti-meat, but I don’t think that would suit me very well and besides you guys they have lamb sausage on the menu LAMB SAUSAGE ZOMG IT’S LIKE THE MOTHERSHIP IS CALLING TO ME I LOVE LAMB. So of course I had the maple-glazed pork shoulder, which was perfectly fall-apart tender, smoky and just a little salty, with a fried egg on top and all of that set upon a pile of grits and braised greens, with pickled onions as garnish.

To be fair, it was a very difficult decision between that and the lamb sausage dish, but in the end I had to go with my heart. The heart wants what it wants, after all. And my heart wants another trip to the Publican for brunch so I can fill my stomach with lamb sausage.

The U had quiche made with ramps, spring onions and gruyere with a salad, and a side of the most delicious hash browns I’ve had in a long time. They were flat and round and perfectly crispy and salty on the outside, but still potato-y on the inside.

*On a price scale, brunch was somewhere in the middle. It wasn’t cheap, but considering the fame and the “name” that is Publican, I was expecting it to be quite a few dollars more, and was happily surprised that it wasn’t.

*The service. Despite how busy it was, the staff seemed pretty upbeat and unruffled. As someone who was a waitress for 15 years, I totally respect that. I also totally respect our server for not slapping me, as I was That Girl who, in the span of 30 seconds, changed her damn order three damn times because she couldn’t damn well decide on what she wanted to eat, dammit. Sir who was waiting on us, I am so, so sorry. I promise I will never do that again.

The Cons:

*The wait. Fair warning: If you show up for brunch and you don’t have a reservation, expect to wait. Quite some time. Granted, they kindly usher you over to the standing bar so you can have a cocktail while you wait, but still, you’ll be on your feet for some time before you sit. That’s a bummer only because it’s that much more time that you’re watching heavenly plates of food trundle by you and it takes all the strength you have not to clothesline a server and steal whatever is in their hand, licking the plate clean before they come to.


I didn’t actually do that, you guys.

I just….thought about it.

*The drinks. More specifically, the drink prices. The drinks themselves were delicious, I have no qualms about that. They just seemed ever-so-slightly overpriced, IMHO. I know they’re using buzzword-esque ingredients, but had they been a buck or two cheaper, I probably would have ordered a second one. I’ve been around the block (and by block I mean bars) enough times to know the sweet spot of price points, and the Publican is just slightly missing the mark.

*Errm….hmmm… To be honest, I’m trying to think of a third con to keep things even. But I really can’t. I guess maybe if you’re not a fan of communal tables, you probably wouldn’t like this joint? Because the majority of seating is at long, wooden communal tables. But I enjoyed that aspect, personally.

Overall, my rating, on a scale of One to Go?


One restaurant down, 11 more in the queue.

the missing piece

22 Dec

The girls and I, we have this…thing…that we do. At a typical Tuesday Night Dinner, there is so much chatter that is just so loud and all over the place, so many topics that need to be discussed, so many quotes that need remembering, that we take to the whiteboard.

We bought it years ago, and it’s come in handy more times than you would think. It’s true. By the end of the night it’s covered with quotes, crossed out discussions, doodles and drawings. And it usually stays that way until the next Tuesday Night Dinner, when I erase away the quotes so we can start anew when the girls walk in the door. But not before jotting down whatever is on the board on a piece of paper for remembering the good times at a later date.

For example, from one TND, I laugh my self silly at: “I think it sounds something like: ‘EngeMnnnnnMeh-Mehhh….” I laugh because I love my friends, and I laugh because I love our good times, and I laugh because I have no fucking clue what this quote was in reference to. But it was obviously funny at the time.

The whiteboard, when not in use for a TND, stays at my house, with the collection of various colored dry erase markers, and in a perfect world, I would remember to bring it with me whenever the five of us get together to record more hilarity that we won’t understand later.

But this isn’t a perfect world, so last week when we were tremendously busy stuffing our faces and embarrassing our waiter at Woodberry Kitchen, we had to make do with what we had, and I jotted down quotes and notes on the back of a pilfered specials menu Lindsay had tucked in her purse.

By the time we rolled ourselves out of the restaurant, that skinny piece of paper was filled, filled with memorable sayings (to us, anyway), most of which wavered on vulgar, a few that may have been prosecutable, and all of which were inappropriate.

We wished our waiter well, and thanked him profusely for putting up with us. He smiled and nodded, and I dare say he will never have another table quite like ours. Though hopefully he will get to know us a little better, and maybe even become part of our group, because I left a note on my receipt telling him that two of my friends thought he was cute, and wrote down their numbers.*

As we drove away from the restaurant, fat and happy, I informed my friends that I’d left their numbers on my receipt. They of course flipped out until I explained that yes, I may be an asshole for doing that, but hey, that’s what makes me fun. I think they may forgive me by our next Candles & Prayers outing, but in the meantime, I distracted them by reminiscing our notable quotables from the evening, and they sat back, content, letting a split second of silence come over the car. Until I broke it by staring intently inside my purse then asking:

“Umm, you guys? Who has the paper with all the quotes on it?”

And mayhem broke loose once again.

We debated calling the restaurant, to see if they’d mayhaps saved that piece of paper when they were clearing the table. We went through the pros and cons of our waiter reading what we’d written. I say he’ll be impressed and find us funny and witty. And therefore he will definitely call their numbers. The girls could do little more than cover their eyes and shake their heads.

But I still have faith. It’s been a week since our visit to Woodberry Kitchen, but I’m thinking that our waiter is just playing hard to get, and is pondering our witty and inappropriate quotes, trying to decide which one he really appreciates the most. I’m thinking that it will be the, “There is pork juice on my knee” quote that will really seal the deal for our waiter, will really show him how great these girls are, and how lucky he’d be to date them.

I’m expecting him to call one of the girls any day now.

Aaaannnny day now.


*No, I’m not kidding.**

**What? He was a cute guy. I would have left my own number, but I have a feeling The Swede would frown upon me doling out my number to other guys.


candles & prayers: the eating

15 Dec

Once the choir has died down, and the carols have ended, and we’re able to get Scalzo (known in some parts as the Mayor of Loyola) to stop glad-handing and schmoozing with students and alumni and get her to put her coat on and actually out the chapel doors, it’s time to eat.

To be honest, it’s rarely ever not a time to eat, but on Candles & Prayers day, eating is a big part of the ritual. We start the day at Miss Shirley’s for a late breakfast/lunch.

Then there’s the hangout time at the student union on Loyola’s campus, while Scalzo rehearses with the rest of the choir. New this year! Starbucks on campus. Very exciting. There’s also crossword puzzle-doings while in the student union, which doesn’t have anything to do with food, but it certainly works up an appetite.

And then there’s the whole, ya know, reason for the season and all, what with the candles, the prayers, the songs, more prayers, a Christmas tree, presents for needy kids, more songs, some sing-a-longs, and then it’s over.

And then.


It’s really time to eat.

Every year we pick a new restaurant to try. Last year it was Clementine. The year before it was Rocket to Venus. The year before that it was a wine and cheese reception on campus. And the very first year it was Papermoon Diner followed by drinks at The Belvedere Hotel’s 13th Floor.

But this year.

It was the fifth anniversary of our C&P excursions. So it had to be special, of course.

Which means that there’s no shame in making dinner reservations in August.

Which is what we did

For Woodberry Kitchen.

If you live in/near Baltimore and you like good food, you just fell out of your chair at that last sentence.

If you don’t live in/near Baltimore, and could give a crap about food, you probably have no clue why other people might have just fallen out of their chairs. Was there an earthquake or something in Baltimore? you might be asking.

No. Not unless you mean the earthquaking of my soul.

Okay, that doesn’t even make any sense.

Woodberry Kitchen is a restaurant in Baltimore. Kind of near the Hampden area. It’s been popular since the day it opened, a runaway success. Getting a reso there on short notice is fucking near impossible, especially if you have more than four people in your party.

Hence why we made our reservation back in August. We just wanted to be sure. (Also because last year we had a snafu with a certain restaurant that shan’t be named, that I’ve tried to go to a couple different times, but keep getting the shaft.)

You’d think, after stuffing ourselves on grits and pancakes and eggs and bacon and grilled cheese and whathaveyou at Miss Shirley’s, we wouldn’t even be hungry for dinner. But bear in mind, dear Interwebers, Miss Shirley’s was seven hours prior to dinner.

And that’s a long time for this crew to go between feedings.

Woodberry Kitchen was bustling and busy and just….swamped…the minute we walked in the door. We got drinks at the bar, then waited for our table to be ready, happy to wait, seeing as how we showed up 15 minutes before we were due, and our cocktails were so lovely. In actuality, we waited another 15 minutes past our reservation time, which normally would make me furious*, but which this time I barely noticed, and things were handled so smoothly that I would have even waited an extra 15 minutes after that.**

Crab pot. Pumpkin flat bread. Both arrived at the table almost immediately courtesy of the restaurant, along with another apology from the staff—manager included—for making us wait past our reservation. It was so well-presented, well-handled, and then turned out to be so delicious, we all knew at that point we were in for a treat that evening.

We ordered. Insane amounts of food—roasted pork shoulder, rockfish, spelt noodles, steak—and two bowls of popcorn. (Yes, they have popcorn on the menu. And it tastes like each kernel has been individually buttered and salted to the perfect amount.) (Great, now I want popcorn. AGAIN.) Our waiter was incredibly patient with our gaggle, even though we made him blush a couple of times with our bawdy tales and aptitude for yelling out incredibly appropriate things like, “It’s okay! We can have sex and I won’t hold you to it!” just as he approached the table to see if we need another round of drinks.***

(The answer was no, we didn’t.)

(But we ordered them anyway.)

My friend Linds and I ended up splitting an entrée. But before you go thinking that I’m one of those girls who’s all, “Oh, I’ll just have this half of a carrot and one grain of rice, gee, so delicious I’m full!” bear in mind that the entrée we split was a 22 ounce strip steak on half a garden of roasted vegetables.

A food runner elegantly presented us with the dish, plated in a thick crockery baking dish, a chunk of herbed butter (presumably) melting deliciously on top.

“This is Ramseys,” he told us. “He came to us earlier this week.”

The girls and I looked at each other, then at the food runner.

Oh my. He was serious. This steak’s name really is (was?) Ramseys. File away another string of love in my heart for Woodberry Kitchen.

Not the best picture, the lighting was for shit.

He took Ramseys away, explaining that they were going to slice it up in the back—easier for us to split that way—and it would come back out with the rest of the entrees. When our waiter later came back to check on how our entrees tasted, I replied, “You know, his name may have been Ramseys, but tonight his name is Delicious.”

Dessert is another story. Five girls, five different orders. Almost—but not quite—one of everything on the dessert menu. It was gluttonous. It was unnecessary.

It was wonderful.

I regret nothing.

I will never be the same again.

Candles & Prayers may never be the same again.

But if you’re going to do it up, do it up big.

Ramseys, I loved you. Every bite of you.

Amen and hallelujah.


*Listen: I worked in the restaurant industry for 15 years, and I can be pretty lenient when it comes to a lot of things, because you just never know what’s going on behind the scenes and in the back of the house. But typically one hard and fast rule I have is if I make a reservation at your restaurant, and I am not seated within five minutes of my arrival, I’m going to be PISSED. Why the fuck did I bother to make a reservation if you’re going to make me wait anyway? Unless Jesus Christ Himself is the reason for the delay, I don’t care. Just fix the seating issue and fix it fast.

**Okay, maybe not 15 minutes, seeing as how we were getting pretty hungry, but at least another 10.

***I read these things that I write and I realize that it’s astounding that—TRUTH—we have never been kicked out of a restaurant.