- 5 years ago
- Wedding: April 2018
Mother’s Day was Sunday, this we all know and since we all love our Mommas, we all did or planned something to celebrate the lady that made us the people we are today. The most common of plans: Brunch, the heady blending of breakfast and lunch with booze and waffles and everything in between, it’s heavenly.
I’ll preface this by saying my Aunt sucks, she hates me in a way that I’m actually a little proud of since people tend to reserve such roiling angst for individuals that knock up their daughters or sleep with their spouses, so it’s kind of impressive that I’ve managed to piss her off so much by simply existing.
My parents are members of a country club here in the Rockies, I’m pretty sure it’s as old as the hills themselves, but that dusty old relic serves a rockin brunch! My Aunt, being the petty and annoying person she is, made reservations at the club, using my father’s name, for mother’s day brunch that did not include my brother and I and merely invited my mother as a +1 for my Dad…like I said, she could suck start a leaf blower, it’s that bad….and since we had no idea anything was planned anyway, I made reservations at a new restaurant, it was this choice I will come to regret for the rest of my days.
I should have known better when it was required that I give a credit card number JUST to hold the table, it should have sent me running for the hills when we were wandering downtown trying to find this place because they’re so pretentions, they don’t even have a sign on the street, just a menu in the window…REALLY?
We get inside, the decor is actually really cool, honest to god trees from floor to ceiling, airy booths and Billy Holiday on the speakers….then I see the hostess, looking like Little Debbie after a meth bender, she escorts us to our table and I try not to stare at the wingtips she’s decided to wear with her gingam summer dress.
The waiter comes, he’s in a pair of those tiny pants and keeps clasping his hands and bending at the waist getting all excited about the menu…which is pre-fix, you can only select an entree…fine, I order a bloody mary, tell the waiter to have the bartender slap her hard with the vodka and hope for the best.
Fifteen minutes later, another member of the Tiny Pants Brigade sashays from the rear with a single plate, the size of a deck of cards clasped reverently in both hands to his chest, with all the pomp and circumstance of a royal coronation, he places it on our table, where a cluster of pouf pastries sit, the size of a ping pong ball, and there’s one for each of us…neat.
We each pop the things in our mouths, it’s good, but it’s small, I order another bloody mary and pray the next course has substance.
Eggs Florentine with Spinach grioche, resting on a tiny triangle of toast, I’m pretty sure they used quail eggs, it’s that small…my brother mumbles, “I hate you Nona” under his breath as he eats it in a single bite.
The sweet potato and coconut soup garnished with cilantro oil was brought out in a parade of manscaped glory and set in front of us with such pride, they all stood there and watched as we took our first bite. I wish they hadn’t, my brother made a face like a toddler trying green beans for the fist time, as he chokes back a gag, the fiends in their tiny pants flock to the reat of the restaurant to point at us and whisper.
The main course was actually ok, and the chocolate profiteroles were all commandeered by my four year old nephew who had been quite vocal in his refusal to eat the “stinky food”
So yeah, by the time I walked out of that joint, down $300, kind of drunk, starving, and pissed off when I realized it took them an hour and forty five minutes to serve me 7 ounces of food…my Mom and I got in the car, got it over with and laughed till we cried.
We picked up Qdoba on the way back to my house, sat with Mr. 99, who had stayed home with a bad back, played with Wort and watched Archer…best.mother’s day. ever.