Part One: Saturday, or Whoever Made Gluttony a Deadly Sin Was a Total Loser
“Hey Nat – this weekend will qualify as our longest road trip ever!”
“Where did we road trip to before?”
“Okay, so this will qualify as our only road trip ever.”
Although only a three-hour trek, this weekend was a big event for Natasha, Farnsworth, Seamus and me, because we were finally all going to visit Dee-Dee’s restaurant, not as grunt laborers, but as paying customers this time. Or so I thought, until we walked into the bar and were immediately handed black Hefty bags by Dee’s older sister, Cheri, whom I affectionately refer to as The Rebel.
“Hey guys. Here, take this and follow me. Our ice machine broke down so we’re going to the restaurant on the corner to take all their ice.”
“Do they know we’re coming, or are we just stealing it?”
“No, they know. They said they don’t need any until the Sitzman-Markevitch wedding next week.”
I learned that in a small town, six people carrying black plastic garbage bags can walk down the block, into a restaurant, past the gift shop, into the elevator, through the kitchen, around the corner, past the marinating salmon, to the industrial ice machine, then fill the bags with ice and walk right back out without so much as a question, just as long as you say hi to everyone you pass along the way.
Ice crisis averted, we were now free to wander the town until our dinner reservations at 6:00pm. We met up with Natasha’s parents and her sister, Baby G, who were all getting massages at the resort down the street. Dee-Dee told us how we had to come up on a Thursday night sometime so that we could see the variety show put on by the resort staff. All we needed now was an unplanned pregnancy and a big rumba number at the end of the evening to make this Dirty Dancing experience complete.


We went back to the restaurant just in time to get a cocktail before dinner, which is when I discovered that when they were staffing their restaurant, Dee and her siblings clearly pulled out a J.Crew catalog and just pointed to the models they wanted to work at the restaurant. It was like being served by the cast of the O.C., except that in addition to being really tan and gorgeous, they were all really nice. And they ate pizza and Dilly bars for dinner at a community table before the doors opened.


It’s hard for me to even describe how unbelievably, gluttonously amazing dinner was, so I’ll just list out everything I ate, in order of consumption:
• Tuna tartare
• Orange, goat cheese and beet salad
• Wild mushroom risotto fritter
• Grilled broccoli
• Crab linguine
• Swiss chard and ricotta ravioli
• Papparadelle pasta with pork ragu and cannelini beans
• Herb crusted rack of lamb
• Malted milk chocolate crème brulée
• Chocolate espresso terrine
• White chocolate mousse
• Apple crumb tart
• Chocolate cherry torte
• Vanilla panna cotta
• Plum tart
This was all washed down with a great deal of red, red wine. As I look back at that list, part of me wishes I were kidding, but most of me is happy I’m not. I felt such love for Natasha’s parents when they ordered every pasta on the menu for us to all share.

[Natasha informs us the no one tells her she can’t have a glass of wine, a glass of champagne, and a shot all at the same time. We are not, she clarifies, the boss of her.]
After rolling out of the restaurant, we headed down to another local hot spot – The Tiki Bar – where a band played Top 40’s tunes, but somehow made every one of them sound oddly like Jimi Hendrix. At Seamus’ suggestion, I took horribly unflattering photos of all of us which could not be deleted fast enough, so we decided it was time to end the evening at the rowdiest bar in town – The Brown Baer (sic).
The last time I visited Dee-Dee, we also ended the night at this bar, where young women wearing prom dresses cried in each other’s arms. This time, it was filled with fist pounding, glass breaking, chanting hooligans playing some sort of drinking game that seemed primarily to consist of saying the word fuck over and over again.
We kept ourselves away from the career drinkers by playing a few games of darts in the back corner by the bathrooms. It seemed the safest place to congregate, until Farnsworth pointed out a man he referred to as a Columbine kid walking into the bathroom wearing a giant black trench coat on a hot summer evening. We took that as our cue to leave.
We piled into Dee and Seamus’ cars and headed out to The Rebel’s house, where I looked forward to a deep country sleep. How naïve that thought now seems to me.

[Coming Soon – Part Two: Sunday, or The Kittens Are Coming]

Filed under: General on June 26th, 2007