“Bring me your fanciest cocktail! Something encrusted with chocolate and brimming over with top-shelf vodka! None of that vodka on a shelf low enough that the bartender can actually reach it, oh no! I want vodka from the ROOF!” I command, and moments later the cocktail arrives. It is, indeed, encrusted with a chocolate powder so rich and sticky that it almost prevents the non-food-touching part of me from putting my lips to the glass. Eventually, the chocolate- and booze-loving parts of me win, of course.
This is why I love going to nice restaurants, which, being poor-ish, I seldom do. I kick back in the chair, choose something I would never, ever make for myself–“Risotto Balls,” anyone? Yes, risotto balls. Needless to say I couldn’t resist a series of crude jokes at their expense. (If you’re looking for risotto humor, though, you should check here and here, and all of the following entries. This will be on the final.)
My ordering behavior verges on the obnoxious: “We will live like kings!” I proclaim. “Damn-Hell-Ass Kings!” I order exotic mushrooms and foods stuffed with other foods and make the waiter bring me samples of wines I have never heard of. I use eighty-seven different forks (bliss!) and sit back amidst twinkly lights, digesting, and composing songs à la Will Smith about my ravioli: “Welcome to my-yammy!”
This is why I should probably not leave the house, much.