XXX-III=Me

I went out to dinner last night for a friend's birthday. She was celebrating her XXX birthday, an important lesson to us all that roman numerals can be used for more than stealing back your town's lemon tree. She chose one of our kickball bars for dinner, which may seem like a surprising move to some. That's understandable, as kickball bars are usually dive bars that smell like heavy amounts of bleach on a good day and beer-soaked, vomit-encrusted bad decisions on a bad day. This one, though, has surprisingly good food on the menu, and amazing food if you're lucky enough to be offered something off the menu.

For our party last night, the owner made us a six-course feast that was one of the best meals of my life. For hors d'oeuvres we had fried brussel sprouts, smoked salmon, prosciutto, and chorizo. The first course was a seafood bisque with scallops and shrimp, followed by a cabbage and radish salad with pupusas. For the third course, we had halibut with a spinach reduction and tabbouleh. The next courses were osso buco so tender the marrow could be eaten like soup, and then a rib eye with fried potatoes. Finally, there was a chocolate soufflé for dessert.

Now, I've never run a marathon. But I think that my experience last night was as long, difficult, and ultimately rewarding as one, if not more so. (This point was proven when our resident marathoner could not finish the rib eye, though perhaps she had begun her sprint to the end too soon when she cheered enthusiastically for the mass consumption of baby cow) And more exciting than the wonderful feeling in my stomach was the reminder that there is damn good cooking in this city, and not necessarily in the most recognized places.