It’s Monday evening, and I’m on the prowl. I’m looking for a new place to eat, something earth shaking, something exceptional, something that will make my eyes roll into the back of my head. A confession:
I cruise for restaurants the way that some men cruise for prostitutes.
It’s easy to do here in Seattle. Restaurants are hidden on back streets and little traveled avenues. A little nugget of joy may be found in an old warehouse or once abandoned storefront. I slow my Mini Cooper and roll down my window in order to get a better look.
“Hey there sweetie”, a place speaks out to me. “looking for a good time?”
“I…I…It depends. Wha…wha…what’s your specialty?”. I’m more nervous than I should be.
“French. Provencal specifically.” The place smiles coyly.
I’m a bit intimidated. And it doesn’t feel right. You can’t get good French food for less than $20, and certainly not on Capital Hill. II smell a set up. Or is it a poor excuse for coq au vin? I can’t really tell.
“No thanks” I say, rolling up my window and quickly driving away. I notice my heart rate is accelerated and there’s some sweat upon my brow. “That was close” I think to myself.
But I soon find myself in a different neighborhood, my car now at a slow crawl. A sweet aroma is in the air. “Γειάσου” someone says to me in a bright neon script.
“Hello… how are you?” I say, swallowing hard.
“Hi there. Looking for a good time?” is the response.
“Yes.” I pause. “What’s your specialty?”
I get nervous and excited. “I’m sorry,” I stutter. “I’m not in the mood for Greek tonight”. Again, I quickly drive away.
Soon I find myself in front of a new place. “Italian” the sign indicates.
Good. I can do italian. I’m familiar with Italian.
I go in, and I am treated to an hours worth of pleasure. Strong, pungent aromas of garlic and oregeno permeate the room, and tastes both delicate and overwhelming. My head is spinning after a glass of chianti, and my endorphins rush to the front of my mind as I take my first bite of dessert, a homemade tiramisu that’s actually subtle AND sweet at the smae time. I bang my hand in appreciation upon the table. My server smiles at me knowingly.
And after about an hour after I started, it’s done. I put down my pre-arranged fee, and add 20%. It was that good. I am sated and satisfied…
…until my jones hits again, and I’m forced to go out once again.