Finally, I’m back here. I have some stories to tell but I was busy this week.
The backstory: last summer me and Billy started going to Happy Hour on Thursday (my Friday) at The Patio – outdoor tables on the Esplanade by the RiverPlace Hotel. The Patio closes in winter and since April, every time there was a nice day we’d start talking about The Patio re-opening. A couple weeks ago they put the tables outside and we were all in anticipation and finally they opened last Friday so yesterday was the first day of Happy Hour at The Patio. I had to look at documents on the coast and I was extremely motivated to get the job done quickly and efficiently so I could get back in time for Happy Hour.
We go to The Patio and we’re both starving and we’re all happy about first day out at The Patio and having a snack and then: WTF?
First of all, The Patio serves beer in 12 oz plastic cups for the same price as the hotel bar which serves beer in pint glasses. (The Patio is run by the hotel). We get the menu and where are the fun normal snacky bar snacks? No, it’s like “Baby New Zealand Artichokes steamed in Bavarian butter and Serengeti seared raspberries over a bed of wild marsh goatnut ricepatties and percolated snaplings” for $19.95. WTF? This is a friggin outdoor patio. So the gal serving us is helpful and sweet and we’ve already complained that they no long have MacTarnahans Ale and we have to get Fat Tire and I ask her about the menu and what happened to the snacky snacks and she explains that they have a new chef, from France, and how they still have snacky snacks but Americans might not recognize them as that. So she points out the “East Atlantic popcorn shrimp, served with wilted red pepper aioli and truffle sauce and capers” for $4.95 which I knew was going to be three little shrimp the size of my pinky-nail and not going to do squat for our hunger problem. So we’re sort of lukewarm so she points out the “Northern Idaho baby roasted potatoes” with some sort of Frenchy huey-palooey sauce that American’s wouldn’t know so they called it chili nut sauce and I look at her and I say, “Does this feel like a baby roasted potato moment to you?”
I mean, come on. We’re on a friggin outdoor patio — total black bean quesadilla territory, it’s like 80 degrees out and I’m drinking a beer and I’m going to order a plate of potatoes?
It was quite the disappointment. I felt bad because the gal was being so sincerely helpful although Billy suggested the whole “we have a French chef” routine sounded snotty. We ended up going back to the hotel bar and since we’re regulars there (“everybody knows our name”) we told them our issues with the menu and I’ll bet last night Pascal French Chef went home to his significant other bitching and moaning about those low brow Americans who want mini pizzas at the bar instead of the “Newfoundland foie gras pinwheels with roasted Arizona baby pepper syrup and unleavened croissant wedges.”
