Sunday, December 7, 2008
When we somehow managed to arrange sleepovers for both our kids on the same Saturday night, we had great hopes for a high-impact date night (no babysitter fees, stay out as late as we want, sleep in, read the Sunday paper without the sounds of Spongebob's maniacal laugh in the background...)
You know what they say about the best laid plans...
It wasn't because, right as the previews ended and MILK started, the water bottle leaked and spilled cold water all over my lap. The water mostly evaporated and the movie was awesome.
It wasn't the fact that Franny's amazing pizza pies have gone up to a whopping $17 a pie. (It's usually a pie per person, so that's a lot for pizza, right?) I don't care, I would pay almost anything for their clam pie, with whole clams and chili oil. (Franny's is one of those super thin crust, all sustainable ingredients, hip and minimalist places that I am a sucker for.) We also had a vinegary saute of chicory, radicchio and gaunciale (pork cheek) which was so great.
It wasn't that the Beet-ini -- a top shelf martini made with pickled beets -- was $11. It was totally worth it-- definitely not the cloying sweet purple monstrosity I was imagining. ("Last time I got a specialty martini I swore I'd never do it again," I told Chris, seconds before throwing caution to the wind and ordering it.) I bought golden beets today to try to duplicate the effects.
It wasn't that the waiter told me that he'd probably order something a little more hearty on a blustery night like this, but that the Calabrese red I wanted was "pretty good". Fuck you, I want the cheap one, okay? I just spent $11 on a beetini. And I like southern Italian wines.
No, the reason our night was ruined -- almost -- was because we had no sooner settled into the bar, discussed the risks of ordering specialty drinks, gone for it, and taken that first, transcendental sip, than my cell phone rang.
Our five-year-old, on the fourth or fifth sleepover of her life, was having second thoughts. 9:03, and she was crying and wanted to go home.
Talk about culinarius interruptus.
No sooner had I hung up the phone than the hostess appeared: our table was ready.
Are we bad parents because we took the table, ordered our food, wolfed it down, and got to our daughter at 10:03?