Thursday, August 20, 2009

Dear Tia Tay,

Richmond's been flooded by a deluge of incredible heat and humidity lately, making me remember more than one Austin summer spent hopping from one air-conditioned place to the next. Today's air-conditioned environment was briefly provided by Croaker's Spot, a local restaurant whose menu is unabashedly seafood-laden. I didn't dare order one of the two chicken dishes there, much less anything from the begrudgingly short list of vegetarian items known as "The Veggie Patch."

I ordered the shrimp po boy, which of course immediately made me think of you. Is it strange that I feel guilty eating something you can't? I must be more poorly differentiated than I thought. In case you were wondering, it was delicious: the bread soft and slightly toasted, the creaminess of the mayonnaise perfectly complementing the crispness of the battered shrimp. I drenched my sandwich in Louisiana hot sauce, and resigned myself to the sound of my arteries slamming shut.

Aside from pondering the psychological issues underlying guilt and whether or not my health insurance would cover me if I had an actual heart attack, today's lunch made me wonder if you had any rules for ordering in restaurants. I rarely eat out these days, and when J and I decide to, I drive him crazy by insisting that we go somewhere I can order something I wouldn't/couldn't make myself. Today's sandwich, for example: no way that you could achieve that kind of sandwich without a deep fryer, an appliance my cholesterol thanks me for not having.

How do y'all choose where to go out to eat, and do you have rules for ordering at restaurants too? Maybe it's just me.

I don't have a picture from lunch, which is a shame, because there were three lofty, beautifully made and frosted cakes resplendent beneath glass domes right next to where we were sitting. Instead, here's a picture of a glass of orange juice, courtesy, again, of my brother:



Hope to hear from you soon - is it hot out there in Chi-town? If so, maybe this will cool you and B off.

Love,

Tia Fia

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