Today, special guest writers. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Kevin and Christabel Savage! -cf
I resisted going to Spoons for the longest time. I'd regularly read friends' gushing reviews on Facebook, and somehow the diner still failed to appeal. Which is odd, because I rather like food that I don't have to cook, and restaurants sort of have that by definition. Turns out, it's just the name. Apparently all Spoons evokes in me is a sense of boring, greasy spoon food. Thankfully, the reality is substantially better than the stuff my unfevered imagination conjured up.
Party of four: Dave and Catie were already admiring the vintage decor when my wife, Christabel, and I rolled through the door. Our waitress (Can you still say waitress? Screw it, I'm using it anyways.) was there by the time we were settled to take our orders for the requisite pre-crack-of-noon caffeinated beverages. Dave and Catie had OJ and coffee respectively, while Cbel and I had tea. I'm pretty sure I didn't see any grimaces over these drinks, but my observation skills aren't exactly top-notch while I'm still in my boot-up phase.
It had been quite a while since the last time we had seen Dave and Catie, so our little group inevitably became the chatty little group that I've always suspected annoys the bejeebus out of waitresses. Ours took it well in stride though, she even cracked a funny. I think it was the second or third time that she came to take our orders that we got serious about the whole 'ordering food' thing.
Catie had the huevos rancheros. I distinctly recall hearing happy noises issuing from her vicinity during her meal. She had a smile at the end, as well. It's not wholly conclusive, but I think the evidence leans heavily towards satisfied customer.
Dave and I both went for omelets. His choice was the Mr. Zirk, which is named after a friend of mine who apparently got bonus naming rights for attendance and merciless Facebook flogging. There was the teeniest serving mistake whereby we were given each other's plate. We detected the error, but not before I had a chance to nuke Dave's meal from orbit with pepper. I had the Mr. Jones, chosen largely for the fact that it contained chicken and some seriously appropriate vegetables. Also, it had pan-fried potatoes. They require their own paragraph.
They were very, very good.
Christabel had the Idol benny. The most unusual aspect was the pesto hollandaise sauce. I'm going to admit freely that I didn't think it was going to make any kind of sense. I was wrong. It was so good, I'm liable to develop a taste for being wrong. Also, more pan-fried potatoes. If you make your hash browns like that, don't be surprised if I switch straight into fanboy mode.
So here's the final tally, after we eliminate the Russian and French judges' wildly inaccurate scores:
- four happy tummies
- prompt and enjoyable service
- they have a big parking lot
- ... that isn't downtown!