Just on this side of that there nandina hedge, you can almost make out Cranky, Bean Sprout and me enjoying another el fishco meal al fresco.
Despite the hefty cash-only pricetag, I'm really enjoying meals there. A few bucks for a vegetarian meal of coleslaw and a plate of fries doesn't hurt much most days, and every now and then a little splurge for piscine protein happily happens.
Surroundings are just right: picnic tables, boats, birds, dogs. Clientele is yuppies, sailors, bums like me.
Today's lunch was fish and chips. The fish — perfectly unidentifiable white fillet, tender and moist — is encased in batter that forms lava-lamp shapes once it's dropped into the deep fryer. The chips are hand-cut wedges (skin on) that become — er, well, tender and moist, just like the fish, in that fryer. Altogether perfect with a sploosh of malt vinegar.
Except that now, a few hours later, I'm still enjoying the esophageal flavor of "remembered" fried grease.
I don't blame the restaurant. I really am that delicate a digester.
Hey! Did Bush do anything really stupid today? Probably, but I'm just not seeing it in the news.
What a great day.