"Where would you like to eat?"
"I don't know. Where would you like to eat?"
Repeat until one or the other sticks his neck out with a suggestion:
"How about that new Italian place?"
"I don't know..." (Which I know means "no".) "I'm making spaghetti and meatballs for dinner."
Apparently JB is a fan of cultural diversity, as long as you rotate and evenly space out the cultures such that there's never more than one meal of the same nationality in gastric transit at any given time. That's how ghettos start, you know. Once Little Italy gets a foothold, there's no stopping Chinatown and the barrio from setting up shop. Next thing you know, your G.I. tract looks like Buford Highway.
It's kind of sad that Urban Spoon shows dozens upon dozens of eclectic eateries within walking distance of our condo, yet every time we decide to eat out we continue to hem and haw like the only choice is between Wendy's and Golden Corral.
I don't know if I was feeling adventurous on Saturday afternoon, or I was just over the whole restaurant selection process. I told JB, "You pick. Whatever you decide will be fine with me." The words still haunt me.
JB seemed momentarily taken aback by my capitulation, but he saw his opening and ran for it. "Well, since we're in Buckhead, there is one place I've been curious to try. It always looks packed during the week at lunchtime, so I'm thinking it must be pretty good."
I'd seen the place before, but I'd never been inside. From the outside it looked rustic and outdoorsy. Like a Rocky Mountain ski lodge. The inside was every bit as rustic and had a sports bar atmosphere with college football games playing on at least a dozen flat screens. As the sign instructed, we waited for a hostess to seat us.
This is when their shtick began to dawn on me. And why the place was called "Twin Peaks". And here I was hoping it might be based on the quirky 90's television series.
"This is what you chose? Jesus, it's hootier than Hooters in here!" I whispered after we sat down at our table and our Ugg-shod hostess scampered out of earshot. JB started laughing. And when our waitress, Brandi-with-an-i, came for our drink order, we both started giggling uncontrollably like we were fifteen and seeing non-mom cleavage up close for the first time.
I felt bad for Brandy... er, Brandi. It's bad enough having to go to work dressed like an Appalachian hooker just to get ogled and groped by beer-buzzed business men. Now she's got a table of gays tittering at her too.
In an attempt to ease the tension, I apologized and said, "This is our first time here. We don't get out of Midtown much." This was basically code for, "Two homosexuals wandered into your establishment by mistake. A round of Dos Equis please."
Brandi not only deciphered my code, she brought us two ice-cold beers and introduced us to her girlfriend, Ami.
|Been there, done that,|
bought the calendar.