Week 6: Hit By The Bus

My hips are bruised because my size zero jeans with absolutely no stretch are now way too tight. They may fit after 15 minutes of pulling, but just because they button doesn’t mean they’re comfortable. The lack of oxygen and black and blue patterns across my hips that have formed over the past couple of days are proof these things are dangerous. Although the thrill of entering adulthood and becoming a 1 or 2 is intriguing, the financial hurdle of replacing my entire closet is not. And then you have to wonder, does it start this way? A few pounds here, a few pounds there, and then you are married with children and three times your original size? It’s not happening- not today. Today’s brunch adventure begins with a run. I’m sorry babe but I know you invested in me because I’m fun size, not because you saw domestic potential. I’m doing this for us.

Ryan’s willingness to join me on this “workout before brunch” gets me thinking. Does he personally feel the same way about himself? Or is he noticing that his girlfriend, aside from the white skin, is beginning to look like Missy Elliot? Maybe he thinks his participation will drive me to work harder. We go our separate ways--I go to the gym and he goes for a run outside. When I get there I hop on the treadmill and decide I’m going to go for a quick 3 mile run, and that is all. In my opinion, that’s enough effort on a Sunday morning and my love for Mexican is undefeatable anyway. It would probably take a half-marathon to eradicate all the calories I’m about to inhale at Taco Bus. Yes, we are going to the legendary Taco Bus. My ipod dies just one mile in, and I immediately convince myself that it’s a sign to get on this bus faster. Two miles, a few sit-ups, done.

No need for a shower and I’ll withhold our reasoning. I’m excited for what’s to come. Mexican is one of my favorite choices and rumor has it the Taco Bus is unfreakinbelievable. The Taco Bus is no longer mobile; it is permanently parked on Hillsborough/Nebraska and surrounded by tables. As we pull up I start taking pictures like a tourist. I love it here. What a neat atmosphere.

We wanted to try EVERYTHING so we ordered a seafood salsa, fish tacos, an “authentic” pork taco, a pork tamale, and a steak burrito. The seafood salsa came out first and I was starving so I dove right in. I instantly realized I was having an issue with the texture. The fact that there are chewy tentacle surprises hiding in my salsa is throwing me off. I’m used to finding an occasional tomato or two and I’m not sure that I like this. The flavor is great, but errrr, another surprise and this time I have no idea what it is. I’m gonna stop eating this for a bit.

My pork filled tamale came out shortly after. It was wrapped in something I had never seen before. Possibly a corn husk. I broke it open and started violating its insides. I had absolutely no idea what I was eating but I knew it was incredible. Something in it had some strange pastina texture and I was debating whether or not it was appropriate to lick the husk clean in public. More food arrived and I chose to control myself.

This was the beginning to the end of all enjoyment. Ryan’s order put me over the edge. I had survived the unpleasant texture issues associated with our salsa but Ryan’s adventurous “authentic” pork taco had me ready to hurl. Intrigued by a taco containing “pork cracklings” on the menu, Ryan had ordered it expecting some crunchy strips in his taco. SURPRISE!!! Ryan’s taco contained actual pig skin strips that had been boiled, and buried throughout his taco like a bunch of soggy band aids. The mere sight of this was making me nauseous. So nauseous that I was unable to enjoy my fish taco and then unable to enjoy my steak burrito. I kept thinking that I was going to accidently uncover a band aid in my meal. The steak burrito was a lost cause anyway due to the fact that they failed to melt the cheese. Ryan informed me that his stomach was turning as he took each bite. I still have absolutely no idea why he continued to eat it. 

As I looked around at the eclectic crowd: firefighters, EMTs, hood rats in velour jumpsuits, an overly trendy family, a man with a spider web tattooed on his forehead, some real Mexicans, etc, I began to wonder if I should warn them of this “pork” taco. I think I’ll pass; something tells me they should suffer too.

So, from Hero to Zero, the Taco Bus went… What started out as an amazing morning in an amazing environment turned into an all-day lasting queasiness and the inability to get off the couch. I even tried napping the experience away and failed. I would like to believe Ryan in that we just “ordered wrong” but I’m not sure I can stomach another Taco Bus meal. If he wants to make the trip again, I’ll simply go along for the ride and tell that poor lady that an adult in a velour sweat suit is a sin.

Week 5: Pope Paul, Malcolm X, British Politician sex. J.F.K. blown away, what else do I have to say---WE DIDN’T START THE FIRE!

Today’s wake up call sure beat an alarm clock, and just like Billy Joel--“We didn’t start the fire.”  Picture this: Sound asleep at Ryan's house. Loud banging on the door. Faint sounds of people yelling in yard.  A very concerned proclation from Patrick (Ryan’s roommate): “THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!!!!!”

As if I hadn't heard Patrick, Ryan shook me and relayed the message with a scream---GET UP! After last week's hiking/camping trip, I found myself sleeping with a single sock to "protect" my left toenail-less foot.  Considering I was scrambling to find one sock, I would say that my fire drill skills are completely up to par. This was incredible; I hadn’t experienced such bedlam since Chinese Fire Drills in high school. WILL THE LIGHT TURN GREEN AS I’M ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE CAR, CAUSING ME TO GET PEGGED BY AN ONCOMING VEHICLE DRIVEN BY AN UNDERCOVER COP? But this was the real deal—real fire!

I should be saying “fortunately” the house was not on fire… but due to the lack of real danger, I am going to go ahead and say “unfortunately the house was not on fire”. Once I was dressed, shoes in hand, standing in the hall, I didn’t smell or see fire. It instantly stalled my endeavor of being out the door within 20 seconds. It turned out that the fence surrounding the side patio was on fire—not the house. When Patrick looked out his window, he saw flames as high as the second floor. So….fair assumption I guess.

The boys put the fire out with the help of neighbors and hoses. What a wake up call--I bet the two girls hiding in Patrick’s bedroom weren’t expecting such an eventful morning either.  Har. Har. How did the fire start? We’re going to point the finger at the neighbors--- they look like they smoke. They also look like they make frequent visits to the dog track and have patio furniture in their dining room. 

My mom and her friend are in town and joining us for brunch so I called her to pick us up. I gave her the directions 3 times. "From Channelside it is ONE ROAD. I repeat ONE ROAD all the way here. STAY STRAIGHT...." Fifteen minutes later I got a call that they were lost on Harbour Island. Irritated by their inability to follow ONE ROAD, Betty Bitch came out. Ryan didnt like my tone and handed me a champagne/vodka infused glass of Sangria. Just what I need...

Eventually, we were on our way to Pinky’s. Rumor has it that Pinky’s has the best eggs benedict in all of Tampa. Bold statement Pinky—I have a favorite already and your chances of changing that are slim to none. We got there and had a 6 table wait in front of our party. Ryan went inside to get coffee and came out with a “Ms. Always Right” mug. You’re so funny babe. My mom and her friend asked for tanning oil as we waited in the 70 degree sun. Yes, I keep tanning oil in my clutch for opportune times like this mom---Clearly they are from Boston and delusional. 

Our name was called and as we walked in I wondered why we waited so long. Pinky’s is cute, and I guess the concept of a serve-yourself coffee bar is cute too, but a half hour wait for this middling café?  Will I find Tampa’s best eggs benedict? As always, we ordered a lot of food: 2 orders of eggs benedict specials, a side of bacon, an oatmeal pancake, home fries, a scone, and two orders of “The Italian” omlettes. As I sat there thinking about the past 15 minutes--my mother and her friend asking for tanning oil, and then ordering the “Italians,” I began to wonder if they watch Jersey Shore and are aware of the stereotypes they are putting truth behind.

So don’t get me wrong- the food was great. The servings were plentiful and everything came out rather fast despite being a “made to order” restaurant.  But Pinky’s just doesn’t do it for me—I’ll still give the best eggs (crab cake) benedict award to Pink Flamingo on Davis Island. Ryan doesn’t agree with me, but Pink Flamingo’s Eggs Crab Benedict is an orgasm of the palate as far as I’m concerned. As always, we were up for a new adventure, and going to Pinky’s accomplished that—but I don’t think we will be return customers. If it wasn’t for the champagne/vodka infused sangria and the fact I wasn’t starving, it wouldn’t have been worth the wait.  Sorry Pinky’s. PS--Try refilling your coffee thermoses, even if it is close to closing time. You can’t “serve yourself” if there is nothing to serve.

Week 4: Does A Bear Poop In The Woods

Today started unlike any other Sunday. We woke up in the woods, stiff from the hard ground and foggy as to how we ended up there. Surrounding us was a mess of filthy clothes, bed linens, a flat lizard with a bit of guts hanging out (Ryan must have accidently slept on him), a bottle of ibuprofen, empty water bottles and most importantly--each other’s puzzled faces. We knew how we ended up there—we hiked 9 miles through the Myakka River State Park because the “wilderness” was calling. We just weren’t sure how we made it to the tent. The last footage found on my digital camera is a video of Ryan and I dancing around the campfire, using flashlights as strobes and singing Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. Lesson Learned: Never drink straight sweet tea vodka in a state of dehydration after a 9 mile hike.

Having pooped in the woods and with a 9 mile “return to civilization” hike on the agenda before noon, I knew whatever the day would hold would be better than the present. We packed up “camp” and with half of a water bottle left, we trekked 9 miles back to the car. We weren’t starving, but we were definitely in the mood for real food after eating an entire 8-pack of fire charred hot dogs in the past 24 hours. Our early morning appetizers were ibuprofen, leftover smores, an apple and an orange. Believe it or not, without the weight of food on the way home, we made it back in just over 3 hours! Ahhhh, finally, cell phone service, a car, and a sweaty hug—WE MADE IT! WHERE DO WE GO!?!?

According to Google, the closest restaurant is 15 miles away in Myakka City. Suzie Q’s, here we come. We passed numerous farms with hundreds of cows on the way there. Dairy Cows, Bulls, Baby Cows… “Oh the babies are so cute, I want to get out and hug one.” This may have been the most erroneous and false statement I’ve ever made. In actuality I was imagining myself or Ryan grabbing the knife from the trunk and slaying our own delicious steak. We are, after all, one with the wilderness now. We arrived at Suzie Q’s only to realize that it was closed. We weren’t thinking straight. Had we taken one minute to think about where we were, we would have known nothing would be open on a Sunday. People are busy praying. And now I’m praying, for real food within the next 15 miles. 

Bingo. There is an open “Woody’s BBQ” within 10 miles and at this point we are speeding. I can’t even look at the cows anymore because between my growling stomach and lack of love for animals, all I can see is meat.

We did finally make it though. Woody’s is in a small strip mall and the only other thing I remember seeing is a gas station (because on the way home we purchased Flamingo Bingo lottery tickets). We attempted running in but our legs were too sore from the hike. Picnic tables everywhere and ugly wait staff. I like it already.

Our waiter has a fohawk and girl’s earrings. He is covered in stars from his wrist all the way up his arm and probably to his shoulder except I don’t want to imagine him without his shirt on. In no way, shape, or form did his stars resemble the comfort of a beautiful night sky. My mind begins to wander--how well does his unique look go over in a small town like this—is he accepted here? Do his customers tip him well?

Ryan goes to the bathroom, leaving me alone with nothing to look at but the table in front of me. I try not to stare but I can’t help it. A woman is with two teenage boys and I’m not sure if they are all siblings or she is the mother. She is on her phone talking to “Ma” and trying to explain to her that she “knows better than to open those dang internet ads. It must be one of them computer viruses” … Thank God Ryan is back, we can order and I can stop staring in disbelief. Oh wait, a man has just walked in with a gold money-sign belt and a fat white woman. Ryan literally laughs aloud but I let it go--I’m hungry and luckily I’ve missed the opportunity to see the belt buckle. Otherwise my strident comments might have been heard.

We ordered the WORKS. Fried Squash, Fried Okra, Pulled Pork, Chili Cheese Fries, Regular Fries, Bread, Coleslaw, and approximately 8 rounds of water. Ryan ordered a beer and just the sight of it almost made me faint. So thirsty. While we were waiting for the food to come out, Ryan passed a note across the table asking if a bear poops in the woods. Well Ryan I’d assume so seeing as even I did just 4 hours ago. Intrigued by “Woody’s Crayons” and the romantic napkin note, I replied, "yes"… along with a squirt of bbq sauce because there were no brown crayons.

We couldn’t be more pleased with the meal (i stress the meal, not condiments). Everything was absolutely delicious—especially the fried squash which I had never tried before. Our server was extremely nice; I managed to look beyond his starry canvas and into the depth of his irreplaceable talent—refilling water. Their BBQ sauce could use some work—none of the flavors were fantastic. It really didn’t matter though; the food itself was very tasty. I would love to go back someday but I don’t think it’s going to happen. I can’t see us venturing through these woods again. But, should we ever have to, I think we’ll stop at Woody’s!

Week 3: The Return to Wat Mongkolratanaram

Back in Tampa after a 700 mile holiday severance.  We’ve missed one whole week of Sunday brunch…where to go, where to go. Although the desire to continue with new venues is tempting, I’ve been craving Wat Mongkolratanaram (Thai Temple) since Thursday. The Thai people and their reversible silk robes are calling.

Due to an entire Saturday of absolutely nothing, I woke up refreshed and ready to take on brunch by the horns. I do believe this is the first Sunday I haven’t looked like a diminutive train wreck. My boyfriend however, is a walk of shame. I’ve been holding him captive since New Years Eve—which means his only option for brunch is formal attire. Fitting into my gym shorts is not an option. Hmmm...should I offer to take him home first? Nah, it’s out of the way. It’s New Years weekend and it might rain; we won’t see anyone we know.

Fail. We should have known better. Thai Temple is the Cheers of Boston—but with diversity, picnic tables, meat on a stick, babies, deep fryers (the babies are not near the deep fryers), a Buddhist Temple to pray, a river, a man missing a hand, signs written in incomprehensible Thai, a meditation garden and Grapefruits 6 for a dollar. Now that I think about it, Thai Temple and Cheers have nothing in common. The point I was trying to get at is that it’s a place “where everybody knows your name.” Not only did we see people we know, we saw people from Friday night—that were well aware Ryan had been wearing the same outfit for 72 hours.

We joined a friend (and two new friends) at a picnic table near the water. I’m not sure what sparked our conversation about races--- it could have been the diverse crowd, the mentioning of adopting Chinese babies, or the fact that we had two siblings sitting at our table arguing over whether they were Indian or Chinese. I can’t honestly say we added much to the conversation because we had pounds upon pounds of glorious Thai treasures in front of us. But what did stop me mid-chew was a comment someone made: “I’m not white. I’m Polish.”  I’ll just stay out of this conversation and continue chewing. It's probably for the best.

To be honest, Thai Temple isn’t about crazy experiences in an outrageous setting. I’d like to say that I fell in the river, or that the man with one hand sat at our table, but he didn’t. It was a beautiful Sunday filled with beautiful food. After almost a half dozen visits there, we’ve got the vendor lines down to a science. We skip the desserts, flowers, praying and plantains. We go straight for Pad Thai, Spring Rolls, Dumplings, Kabobs, Basil Chicken, Rice, and 2 Waters. We’re guaranteed a fabulous meal every single time, and that’s why we’re faithful patrons. Next week, we’ll be back to venturing unfamiliar grounds.