Escargoo

I had another evening of fun with the girls on Saturday—this time at a foo-foo restaurant long on attitude and short on general yumminess. Except for the bread, which was positively orgasmic. It was so orgasmic, in fact, that we patrons were not trusted to be left alone with baskets of its leavened goodness on our tables. No! It was instead given to us intermittently by an international bread steward, who came around with a vast tray of the stuff, doling it out reverently with tongs only when he deemed we were ready for more.

To be honest, there wasn't much on the menu that I found appetizing, but I was in the minority. Our table ordered so much stuff, in fact, that the chef sent out a free pre-appetizer course that consisted of lumps of escargot on tiny beds of carmelized onions. I'd never eaten escargot before because, well, it never sounded very appealing. And my opinions were only reinforced as my little serving of it sat before me, looking like little more than what you'd find in your kleenex after a very productive blow.

But I'm a man of 2004! A boy of destiny! I take risks and try new things and grab the bull by the horns and fearlessly overcome my culinary revulsion inertia. So I tried it. And, to be honest, it wasn't bad. But it also wasn't terribly good. In fact, in a blind taste test, I don't think I'd be able to tell the difference between the poor little guy on my plate and a firm, hairy booger cooked in garlic butter.

For the life of me, I can't remember the name of the restaurant, but it was something like Kopa (Polka? Toga? Tapioca?). And if you ever go there, don't order the menu item simply called "pork." You'd expect to get a lovely pork roast crusted with rosemary and thyme, but you'd be wrong—because you'd instead get a greasy hamhock that's 80% bone and about 3% actual, edible meat. And you'd feel a little iffy for the next 24 hours.