There, I said it. Are you happy?
But it only happened (and only ever will happen) once and I blame it on exhaustion, travel and the mind numbing side effects of raising adolescents.I was off my game.
There is a vegetarian restaurant downtown that Franky is boycotting on account of the painfully slow service, the blatant health code violations and the “f@#&ing hippies” that work there.
I naturally disregarded his rantings and blew them off as yet another symptom of his debilitating condition, cranky-old-man disorder.
“The rice was mushy, the plate was filthy, it took almost an hour to get to our table blah blah blah bllaghlefeawafhggg…”
Silly Franky. He really should learn to be more mindful. Food is a magical and splendid thing, worth waiting for, savouring and connecting with. It’s not a rushed disposable stuff, made for cramming carelessly into our faces. We should take these moments, while waiting for our food, to thank the universe for providing us with its bounty, our life source.
And about the dirty dish, honestly? This Lysol society is so obsessed with disinfectant and sterility that half of us are crippled by autoimmune diseases, asthma and allergies as a result. No need to eat directly off anti-bacterial wipes and wash down our sprout sandwiches with pints of sanitizing gel.
So! Tuesday afternoon, Thing 2 and I went to, despite fair warning not to, the sandwich shop for a bite to eat.
When you first walk in, the impression is of a funky, artsy, student hang-out. Mismatched furniture, colourful walls, Christmas lights, a piano and a laid-back, comfy atmosphere.
We ordered our sandwiches and took a look around. At first it was difficult to chose where to sit, as there are so many room, nooks and crannies.
But as our seat sampling switched to a quest for a not filthy table, as the grime creeping down all the walls and furniture became more and more apparent…
Thing 2: Mom, I’m sorry but this chair smells like vagina, can we change seats?
Me: Is that a bed bug crawling up your arm?
I excused myself to go to the washroom, to wash my hands, but the sink was so crusty, I didn’t want to touch the faucets.
We moved to bar, then to the window, to watch the demonstrates march by, then over to the kitchen counter, where we discovered that, even after having already been waiting half an hour, despite being the ONLY customers in the restaurant, not even ONE of the sandwiches were made.
Even more awesome, there were FOUR employees standing over the ONE unfinished sandwich, discussing who-knows-what and none of them actually doing anything. Ten minutes later, some guy picked up a piece of bread (presumably to start the second sandwich) with the same hands he’d just wiped his sweaty forehead with then wiped on his visibly filth encrusted jeans.
Thing 2 and I took one look at each-other, stood up and walked out the door.
I would have asked for my money back but I didn’t have another hour to spare.
I’d warn you not to eat there but I’m not the kind of girl to name names and what-have-you, that’s just tasteless and tacky and the point of the post wasn’t to trash the dive or anything. It was simply to recognize the one and only time that Franky was right…and I was wrong.
Oh yeah, and also…