Week 36: Two Lonely Housewives

Our boyfriends are out of town and John-Paul and I are left wondering what to do with our Sunday. Thankfully with work on Monday, we can’t get into too much trouble. The past year or so has been spent double dating and whenever John-Paul and I get the opportunity to be alone together, it’s remotely dangerous.

I woke up sad for the first time this morning. With Ryan in North Carolina the majority of the week, I finally realized why he’s important to have around: to eat with. I’ve been busy remodeling my bedroom all weekend and the only time I stopped was to occasionally text Ryan and then to attend Friday night’s shitshow with some of the Ybor rats.  Actually, the majority of Saturday was spent lying face down on my new bedroom carpet due to Friday’s activities. But, I was back to Extreme Home Makeover, Meatball Edition, by late afternoon.

With John-Paul out partying until 5:30 AM, I started to consider my options for dining alone. I was shocked when he returned my call at 11AM, as all bets were against him actually being awake. Eating alone is a very great fear of mine, alongside my fear of full grown men in overalls and dry rocks. I don’t really want to get into detail with the dry rocks, but if you’ve ever been at the beach with dry bare feet, and stepped on a dry rock, you know what I’m talking about. Oh and the word “moist.” That word is also a fear of mine. I cringe when people say it.

Daytime in Ybor is so nice. Aside from the bums that grace the cobblestoned roads, you can really breathe in the unique culture and architecture. As John-Paul and I cross the street, our conversation is interrupted by our observation that a sixth church has opened in the neighborhood. I have no idea why people think we need such saving. “Oh wow, just what we need, another church in Ybor,” I say to John-Paul, only to be bombarded seconds later by a stranger “HEY, what did you just say?”  As I struggled for a response, the man attempted luring us in with some reference to Jesus and something about Sunday football, as if I’m interested and as if John-Paul’s a real man’s man.

Upon escaping religion, and arriving at La Creparia Ybor, John-Paul and I begin raping the menu. This is a real date and I’m the man. I have to pay for John-Paul because he spent his disposable income on a few worthless things this week such as cat food, Nair and 8 or 9 HBO movies.

I’m craving not one, but two iced coffees. Something about iced coffee (or any kind of coffee) makes me feel skinny. We go on to order the Jambalaya Crepe and the La Creparia Special. I add an egg to La Creparia’s Special to transform it into a breakfast crepe.  John-Paul and I discuss weight, diet, blogging, cats, the future, and the hideous curly Mohawk attached to the head of the metro beside us.  Just two single girls hitting up the town and enjoying a gossipy brunch together.

When our food came, we dove in. Savory sex of the mouth. La Creparia has created dozens upon dozens of delicious alternatives to your “ordinary crepes.” They’ll put anything in a damn crepe and I think it’s fantastic. From savory to sweet, from fulfilling to treats (Hey, I should do their advertising), they’ve got it all.

When your boyfriend’s out of town, and all you’ve got is $30 and a gay best friend, visit La Creparia. You won’t be able to drink booze, but you will be able to drink what I consider the best iced coffee in all of Tampa Bay and maybe even the United States. They have booze, you just won’t be able to afford it if you only have $30 (I included a generous tip in that). Skip the tip, you’re golden. But I don’t recommend that. Oh yes and their crepes are pretty frigan fantastic as well.

Week 35: Datz F’in Fantastic

First of all, before we eat, I’d like to address something. A grace of sorts:

Thank you for this lovely meal and for this light-hearted life we lead. I truly believe that in every aspect of life, whether amusing or boring, happy or sad, humor can be found. It’s humor that keeps us young, keeps us merry, and prevents us from listening to gothic rock. Lately it has been brought to my attention that some people are using the Sunday Meatball Chronicles' “offensive content” to get their panties in a bunch. We can take life with a grain of salt my friends, or we can simply eat shit. You shall be the judge.  

Back to business, Week 35, Datz. To be completely honest, in the two times I have visited Datz, I did not become a fan. If you take a few things I don’t like, such as long lines and overpriced alcohol, and put them in one spot, chances are I’m going to be a tough sell. Datz has an interesting crowd, as does South Tampa in general. Perhaps a crowd I’d like to be a part of some day. Some refer to the type as thirty-thousand dollar millionaires. Thirty-thousand dollar millionaires are the type of people that make peanuts, yet drive a foreign car, live in an overpriced home, and are willing to pay $11 for a mimosa. I like to simply call that “hood rich”… kids in private schools, a $175/month gym membership, a home theatre…. and $15 in the bank. I have nothing against the frauds. My father Bobby has played this game for a long time, and calls his strategy “the fat man’s wallet.” He always folds a stack of one dollar bills, but leaves a hundred dollar bill on the outside, to imply that he has a massive stack of cash at all times…when in reality, he may only have $114.

Datz… words ending with Z give me anxiety. I’m not sure who the hell Dat is or whether or not this is Dat’s restaurant, but in other instances, “girlz,”  “watz up” and “love yaz” has really bothered me. Fuckin Z’s. Ryan believes you need to give a restaurant more than one or two chances, because sometimes you just can’t avoid their “off days.” Deep breath, open mind, game on.

There is a good crowd today, because I selected it. Ryan, John-Paul, Sean and Erin. Although we talk every single day, I haven’t hung out with Erin in quite some time. Now that she is right before my eyes, I realize that her 6 weeks of crossfit training have probably enabled her to bench press me. I use this observation as an opportunity to make a mental note: keep Erin on your good side, or just avoid her at all costs. I just dyed my hair black and I’m wearing an off the shoulder skeleton tee. I feel like a real jetsetter, a Kardashian with contacts. No one else seems to agree, as my ass is not big enough, my upper torso has not reached puberty, I haven’t starred in a porno (yet), and I’m not frigan loaded.

As we sit down, the waitress (named China) hands us some reading material and it takes me a full 5 minutes to realize that this newspaper in front of me is actually the menu. How creative. I’m staring at the corned beef/reuben sandwiches section and I decide to talk about how delicious they all look, just to make Erin uncomfortable. Corned beef scares her a bit. Perhaps because it is used to make hash, is not unlike dog food and sometimes comes in a very large tin can which can be reused as a portable-potty on camping trips.  I love everything about corned beef. I express my love for this delicious meat to John-Paul and Sean, and John-Paul confirms its deliciousness. Obviously he loves meat.

The Datz menu contains the work of shamelessly unapologetic flavor crusaders, as they like to call themselves, and I appreciate their odd selection of comfort foods. Fingers crossed, I want to actually enjoy the food this time. Insert drum roll here. Ordering takes place: Roger’s Rockin’ Reuben (sy ginsberg’s corned beef, sauerkraut, swiss cheese, datz Russian dressing, on perfectly grilled Jewish rye), side of macaroni and cheese, Datz potato chips with blue cheese drizzle,  2 orders of Holy Guacamo Lee Mezrah  (oven-roasted turkey breast, fresh guacamole, creamy cole slaw, muenster cheese, datz Russian dressing, served cold on grilled country bread), Billy Benedict (datz ham, Gruyère cheese, poached eggs, topped with hollandaise, on Wolferman’s English muffins. served with datz breakfast potatoes), and Brigitte’s Brioche (brioche French toast, seasonal berry jam, melted brie and crème Anglaise. served with nueske’s applewood smoked bacon).

The waitress has had a long day and it’s obvious. If I were a waitress, the last group of people I would want to serve is us. Aside from being extremely generous tippers, we sometimes get too loud and obnoxious for public. We seem like a bunch of snobs, especially when John-Paul decides to point out a pregnant woman’s stomach in the middle of brunch. I want her to think we are welcoming, open-minded, culturally aware people. After all, her name is China. I bet she has no idea that I owned a yellow FUBU tank top in the 7^th grade until realizing what it stood for. Yea, I am a nice balanced girl.

Food. F’in yum. Seriously. Third time’s a charm, Datz. Your food couldn’t be any better than it was today, and I didn’t even need to hit the gravity bong to truly savor every orgasmic flavor. And finally, silence. Three obnoxious humans (John-Paul, Erin and myself) and not a word left to say, but “F’in yum.”  Ryan and Sean are quiet by nature so who knows what their silence meant. They were probably plotting for ways to get away from us. Regardless, I speak for all when I say we'll be back. So the booze is overpriced, and you may have to wait an hour to be seated…. Well, sometimes a good meal is worth the wait, and wallet.