S. Worthen | Weblog

I have a peculiar and obnoxious talent for ordering whatever a restaurant will be out of. It's happened to me all my life. In one of the worst instances, years ago at a breakfast place, I think I ordered five different dishes before they finally had something in stock; no one else at the table had the same problem. My taste in food must be either unduly common or excessively obscure.

On Wednesday, after softball, twenty-someodd of us piled into the new Peel Pub on College, an American-style bar but with very cheap prices. Gavin regailed us with just how good the onion rings were when he'd gone recently. When I saw the menu, the appetizer which enticed me as a blooming onion, a lovely greasy dish all-too-rarely found on pub menus. Our sub-group within our horde ordered last.

I ordered the onion, a banana dacquiri, and the special which had been advertised out front, a Mexican chicken salad (which only cost $3.99!). "We're out." said the waiter, referring to the onion. Disappointed, I ordered the onion rings instead. "We're out of those too." The pub had a new owner who was changing the menu. Onions seemed to no longer be in favor. I gave up on appetizers, figuring I could always order dessert.

Fifteen minutes later, all the manu variants on beer had arrived at the long meander of a table, but not my drink. The waiter came back. "We're out of banana. Is strawberry okay?" I said it was. Shortly afterwards, he returned to let someone else in my sub-group know that they were out of their order too. J. changed her order and we all blamed her luck on me. They were all grateful that I didn't like beer.

Half an hour later, most of the food showed up. Still no drink. I asked after it, and the waiter promised it would only be a little longer.

Five minutes later, a strawberry margarita showed up for me.