Sometimes I get all carnivore and crave blood and flesh. Don’t get me wrong, I eat a lot of tofu and veggies, but there are those times (usually when I’m experiencing PMS of rabies-like proportions) that I need to eat something that lived, breathed and died a horrible death for my consumption.
Heartless? No doubt. But I’m a firm believer that going out for a bleeding steak is a lot better than morphing vampire-style on a herd of preschoolers. The blood lust is strong, Master, strong.
The other night was one of those nights.
“I need steak,” I said to my husband.
“So cook one,” he replied.
“No,” I said as I headed downstairs to strap the baby into his car seat. “Buying a $3 steak isn’t worthy. This is a holy craving. We must sacrifice. We must Outback.”
He looked over at me. My eyes turned into pools of black magic and I let my head spin around a few times.
He put down his magazine. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“I do not jest about food,” I droned in a creepy monotone.
He sighed the I-married-a-lunatic sigh and drove me from Pukalani to Kihei in about 15 minutes. He was clearly a little nervous being in an enclosed space with me while I was having one of my fits. The baby did look rather juicy.
By the time we were seated, I was ready to pass out during our hour-long wait for a table. Finally we sat at a booth with a bunch of beer-drenched cardboard coasters left on the table. The baby thought they were rather tasty teething biscuits.
The waiter scribbled our order down and rushed off before I could add on the Bloomin’ Onion. I love the Bloomin’ Onion. It’s so greasy and zesty. I was willing to pay $8 for the damn thing, and he just left without completing my order. Off with his head!
“You want me find the waiter and add it on?” asked my Good Husband.
“No. I guess it wasn’t in my destiny tonight.” Sulk, sulk, pout.
This pissed my husband off big time. Luckily for me, he is wise enough to channel his frustration at my lousy attitude onto something else. In this case, the unsuspecting Outback waiter.
“I’m gonna [expletive deleted] stiff that guy,” he said.
It was a noble attempt on his part to make things right for me, but it’s kind of like the death penalty—what good is it gonna do now? I still don’t have my Bloomin’ Onion. Might as well give the guy his $7.
The food came, but the service didn’t really improve. My water remained empty, as did the hubbie’s Coke. Petty? Sure, but I’m PMS-ing, remember?
I had the nine-ounce Victoria’s center cut filet topped with bleu cheese. It was heavenly, but then again it was almost $30, so it better be good. That piece of meat meant I have to eat packaged oatmeal for every meal for the next week.
The husband had the shrimp-topped Caesar salad. He didn’t say much about it. He was busy brooding about the service and pondering whether he should leave a dollar or nothing at all at the end of the night.
We opted out of dessert, though from past experience, the dessert there is pretty yummy. The reality of it is that we’re both cheapskates and wanted to get out of there for under $50. McDonald’s does have dollar sundaes, you know.
After wolfing down my steak, the beast inside of me quieted down and took a nap. I tried to convince the hubby that we should tip regardless of the lame-o service.
I mean, they were packed. He didn’t buy it, though I did stop him from writing, “you suck” under the tip. That would have been childish. MTW