Tune In Tomorrow
Service is a funny thing. There are two kinds of bad service: 1) When the actor/model/rock star doesn’t give a shit, or 2) when the server just isn’t very good. Tim and I encountered the latter at Cafe Buna on Tuesday. I can be a tough customer because I have high expectations. On the other hand, I know when it’s a server problem versus a management or kitchen issue. When one orders breakfast, it usually comes with toast. There are exceptions: pancakes, oatmeal, french toast. So when our server, who looks like she laid out on the surface of the sun after a ten year crystal methamphetamine binge, brings me my omelet without toast, I get a little irritated. Tim asked for vinegar for his collard greens and she brought oil, an acceptable mistake. Tim was gonna say something, but as he said, “I don’t want to throw her off her sobriety.” There were a few other issues which THC has obliterated from my brain, but we’ve decided to not go to Cafe Buna on Tuesdays.
Work was all right. It’s great to have Nicole back. I showed her the Obama election party flier that I had made. She was a big fan, until I told her how much it cost. She was totally cool about it, but she pointed out that I overpaid. You live and learn. Happy hour was perhaps the slowest I’ve ever seen. Kimi had so few customers that she spent most of the time cuddling with me while I read Esquire. I have several magazine subscriptions. The only two I love are The New Yorker and Consumer Reports. The rest I get because they’re cheap and provide minutes of entertainment. Esquire occasionally has good articles, but they also have crap, like a section on watches. The first watch displayed cost twelve-thousand five-hundred dollars. I guess a lot of their readers can afford that kind of timepiece. I’m definitely not one of those people; ergo, that article is bullshit.
Wednesday was my first day off in a week. My only plans were to make pot butter and have dinner with Shari. I ground up my nearly quarter pound of shake with my coffee bean grinder. I wonder if Krups knows how versatile their products are. I melted a pound and three-quarters of butter in a pot and transferred it to my crock pot, the ultimate device for baking food with weed. I let it steep for a couple of hours, strained it, and now it’s ready to be the main ingredient in my funtastic cookies. Shari came over around seven. Since we go for Mexican food nine out of ten meals together, we decided to try Lares, a place we haven’t been together. Although we didn’t need anything to inspire our appetites, we decided to smoke a little on the drive over. I was pretty high when I pulled the car into valet. Alas, the valet was no where to be found. We hung out and decided to have a smoke. At this point, my mouth is drier than a camel’s ass in the middle of the Sahara. And, no, the cigarette didn’t help. At one point, I thought about taking the gelatinous substance in my mouth and rolling it up into a ball of chewing gum. I chucked the smoke and went inside to find out if the valet was having a siesta or dead. I was informed that it was a busy night. I wanted to ask the guy, “Doesn’t the valet drive a car away, then either bring one back or not?” But since I was baked, I just looked at him blankly, then went back outside. The valet finally showed up and I was ready to lick the sweat off his balls just to get some moisture in me. He just wanted my keys.
Lares was packed. We got the last table. I never really thought about it, but in a pinch, salsa can be quite the thirst quencher. The food was all right. Shari seemed to like hers better than I, but with a little weed most food can be palatable. We stopped off at 7-11 for a little Ben and Jerry’s. Shari’s quite the surgeon with a spoon and a pint of cookie dough, lancing all the non-ice cream bits. We watched some TV. Finally, Entourage seems to be getting good. I went to bed with only a few things to do the next day. One of them is baking cookies. Want to know how they turn out? Tune in tomorrow.
