My electricity went out in my family room—the room with the only television on the first floor. My evening begins downstairs. I usually slip on something more comfortable, wash my face, and get comfortable if I’m “off duty”. If my daughter is with me (divorce calendar) I’m helping her with homework and just listening to how her day went. Regardless, I start a load of clothes, unload the dishwasher or start cooking something. Sometimes, I would just catch up with my DVR. I’m not sure how I feel about the DVR and On Demand. It almost makes one a slave to the TV, “Oh my gosh, I’m at 97%-- gotta watch the DVR this weekend…all weekend…” Really? But I’ve said and done just that.
With the electricity out in just the family room…did I mention how weird that’s it’s just out in one room? And no, there was no power outage. Anyhow, with the power out and no access to the TV and DVR, it’s been the perfect time to focus on just me. My daughter’s on vacay with extended family, so I have me all to myself. I’ve been taking an online course—more on that later—and there’s so much I’ve learned about myself on these quiet nights filled with soft music interspersed with the occasional joke or hip hop song (thank you Pandora scramble—and yes, I’m still listening).
But back to the quiet times: I’ve watched a community of birds who use my patio as their stage or shall I say my new and improved nature channel. I’m not sure that I would have been so in tune with their nuances were it not for the lack of distraction from the television. They’re fascinating!
It seems there are two males in the pack of birds and at least seven females. One male has chosen his mate. They are very sweet together, watching out for each other, gathering for their nest. He stands watch while she drinks from the bird bath (my fallen grill cover and I can’t bear to move it). Sometimes they venture in together and it’s really nice to see them together. One day, however, when he was on watch, another female landed next to him. And while I’m aware of the term “shake your tail feathers” I really didn’t know what it meant until now. This bird began to dance right in front of the male bird. His partner/girlfriend/wife, not sure what they call it in nature, flew up to observe or intimidate, again, I’m not sure. The skank…I mean other female bird made herself very big and began to hop toward the girlfriend in a very aggressive showing. The girlfriend flew away, and to his credit, so did the boyfriend. Things have escalated…stay tuned.
Regards,
Andrea
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Why do I see so few Hickeys?
I wonder, as I stare at the maroon bruise on my neck, are hickeys for the youth or newly necking only (if I can use the term "newly necking)? I ponder this question as I think about the ways I used to “get rid” of them in my younger years, when I actually had them. And yes, there are a few moments that come to mind as I think about hickeys. As an adult, one would think that I would think about them differently, that it’s not a banner of shame as it was in my childhood. I’ll never forget the “necklace” Chris put around my neck (see prior post regarding the first kiss).
Chris not only provided my first kiss, but also my first hickey. It was June and thus turtlenecks were out of the question. My parents picked me up that evening, completely unsuspecting. It wasn't until the following morning that my mother spotted the "necklace".
"What's that?" she asked. I hadn't seen my neck.
"What are you talking about?" I replied.
"Go look in the mirror."
"Yikes! I thought. That's not good. "
I used that summer to research how to rid myself of these bruises. No amount of makeup, cold spoons or high collared shirts offered any relief. It seemed that the only remedy was time, and the darker the bruise, the longer it took to go away. My mother was relentless and wouldn't let me hid out at home. "Let's go, Andrea, we're going to the mall." I thought, "surely to parade me around so that people would gawk at my neck."
Since that time, I noticed the marks on other girls, and some boys and would acknowledge them as if they were the salt of the Earth, careful to maintain eye contact and not stare at the hickey.
As an adult, I don't see too many hickeys. Not on adults anyway, and I wonder anew, why this is. Maybe they had a tyrant for a mother as well (and I mean tyrant in the nicest sense of the word) and were just averse to them, maybe they don't put themselves in compromising situations, but sometimes, it's almost unavoidable, as was the little gift I received recently. I was married for 12 years and didn't have the occasion to hide hickeys. I hope marriage doesn't damper passion for everyone, but it begs the question.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Writer's Club/ November Prompt
If I Only Knew
If I only knew how his kiss would affect me, I’m sure that I wouldn’t have let him. This sounds crazy, I’m sure—a kiss as impassioned and haunting should be coveted, not wished away. Unless, of course…but that’s for later. Back to the kiss.
In the quiet of the night, with only the muffled sounds of passersby outside his hotel room, he pulled me into an embrace and stared down at me with the most beautiful green eyes I’d ever seen so close. I didn’t know how to react. I think I laughed and looked away before he guided my head toward his heart. I resisted at first, but then I relented. It was just an embrace.
With this single gesture, he transported me back to grade school when I experienced my very first kiss. Chris Chandler—I’ll never forget. He’d professed his love for me on the first day at my new school in the 7th grade and it culminated at a graduation party in June the following year in someone’s backyard, Kevin McClow’s I think. Autumn Collins tugged at my arm while I was talking to Sunny Becker, one of my best friends. She made a gesture with her head, urging me to follow her, for what, I wasn’t sure, but she was the most popular girl in the class and we were friendly. Sunny nodded, and said, “it’s ok, go” so I did. I followed Autumn past the crowd and to a secluded area where Kevin, K-leen, Dan and Chris were waiting. I had no clue what was going on until Dan and Autumn started kissing. Then Kevin and K-leen started. Suddenly there was just Chris and me staring at them and then back at each other. There was never a more awkward moment in my entire 13 years of life. Sensing my un-ease, he, too, held me in an embrace; I could feel his heart racing.
I’d never kissed a boy, only my father, and not the way I thought Chris wanted to kiss me, so needless to say, I was in a bit of a state. Similar to the one I felt now, standing with my cheek on Claudio’s well-formed chest, lulled by the slow beat of his heart, not sure what was going to happen, what I wanted to happen, and what I was actually feeling other than a mild rush, but yet a certain calmness.
“I…” I started and looked up at him. I shouldn’t have looked into those green eyes directly. I smiled and then turned away. He chuckled low and turned my face toward his with gentle fingers.
“Ahndrayyah, you’re nervous. So cute,” he sang, his Brazilian accent thick. And then it happened. He kissed me. I wish he hadn’t. He lives in New York and only visits occasionally, leaving me with just the memory of that kiss.
If I only knew how his kiss would affect me, I’m sure that I wouldn’t have let him. This sounds crazy, I’m sure—a kiss as impassioned and haunting should be coveted, not wished away. Unless, of course…but that’s for later. Back to the kiss.
In the quiet of the night, with only the muffled sounds of passersby outside his hotel room, he pulled me into an embrace and stared down at me with the most beautiful green eyes I’d ever seen so close. I didn’t know how to react. I think I laughed and looked away before he guided my head toward his heart. I resisted at first, but then I relented. It was just an embrace.
With this single gesture, he transported me back to grade school when I experienced my very first kiss. Chris Chandler—I’ll never forget. He’d professed his love for me on the first day at my new school in the 7th grade and it culminated at a graduation party in June the following year in someone’s backyard, Kevin McClow’s I think. Autumn Collins tugged at my arm while I was talking to Sunny Becker, one of my best friends. She made a gesture with her head, urging me to follow her, for what, I wasn’t sure, but she was the most popular girl in the class and we were friendly. Sunny nodded, and said, “it’s ok, go” so I did. I followed Autumn past the crowd and to a secluded area where Kevin, K-leen, Dan and Chris were waiting. I had no clue what was going on until Dan and Autumn started kissing. Then Kevin and K-leen started. Suddenly there was just Chris and me staring at them and then back at each other. There was never a more awkward moment in my entire 13 years of life. Sensing my un-ease, he, too, held me in an embrace; I could feel his heart racing.
I’d never kissed a boy, only my father, and not the way I thought Chris wanted to kiss me, so needless to say, I was in a bit of a state. Similar to the one I felt now, standing with my cheek on Claudio’s well-formed chest, lulled by the slow beat of his heart, not sure what was going to happen, what I wanted to happen, and what I was actually feeling other than a mild rush, but yet a certain calmness.
“I…” I started and looked up at him. I shouldn’t have looked into those green eyes directly. I smiled and then turned away. He chuckled low and turned my face toward his with gentle fingers.
“Ahndrayyah, you’re nervous. So cute,” he sang, his Brazilian accent thick. And then it happened. He kissed me. I wish he hadn’t. He lives in New York and only visits occasionally, leaving me with just the memory of that kiss.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Writer's Club Prompt/ October
Prompt from writers club:
Your plane is about to takeoff and the passenger next to you whispers to you, "I know I shouldn't say anything, but I can't keep this secret any longer, I have to tell someone"
ACTION!
With mere seconds to spare, I make it to the gate. “You almost missed your flight.”
“I’m …run…terminal 2…I… let’s go,” I lie and am out of breath. I was just running late, as usual.
The ticket agent nodded through my excuse, “It’s a full flight, you may have to check your bag.”
This irritates me. If I’d wanted to check my bag, I would have. I like being able to just go. No waiting for the conveyer belt to ever so slowly roll around with my luggage…hopefully.
“I’ll take my chances,” I tell her as I wheel my bag on to the plane.
A quick survey of the plane shows me that the ticket agent didn’t lie. “3B…3B…3B…” I chant as I make my way through the narrow asile. There’s someone sitting in my coveted seat. Of course there is. The seat next to the woman is open.
“You’re sitting in my seat,” I say through clenched teeth that hold my boarding pass. I don’t glance at her as I lift my bag up over my shoulder and into the overhead compartment. There’s just one other bag there.
“I am? Sorry,” the woman replied as she fumbled with the seat belt. “I’ve been so distracted. I just rushed to the airport.” She stopped suddenly.
I try to avoid eye contact. I don’t need or want to know this woman’s’ story. I just want a nice quiet flight back to Chicago. I check to make sure my iPad is in my carry-on. I’m thinking about how much battery I have left when I’m interrupted.
“Ma’am, please take your seat,” the stewardess reprimands me.
“Yes, that’s the general idea…” I motion toward the woman who suddenly remembered that she was supposed to move, “waiting for my seatmate here.” There’s no way I’m giving up my aisle seat, so I wait patiently.
I plop down in the seat and then buckle up. My neighbor stares at me and I freeze. I can’t hide behind my electronics until after takeoff.
“Are you based here in DC or Chicago?” she asks innocently. I know it’s just the beginning. I use this opportunity to get a good look at my new BFFN. She’s just disheveled, no more than regular road warriors, but she has a sense of refinement to her. The smell of patchouli just tickles my nose. And is that wine? My eye brow raises just a touch. I’m sure if I’d had time, I’d a had a dirty Ciroc with a lemon twist.
“I live in Chicago. Just here for business. And you?”
“Oh, I’ve lived in DC my whole life. I’ve been involved in politics for ever, it seems… You’re not into politics, are you dear?”
“I vote every four years. That’s about as political as I care to get.” BFFN seems to relax at this information. She’s so curious, I think. “I work in marketing. I extend my hand,” I’m Alyssa. Alyssa Wainwright.”
“Nice to meet you Alyssa,” she responds as she receives my hand and studies me.
The stewardess’ voice comes on PA system, we must prepare for takeoff.
BFFN leans in toward me and draws me closer to her, “I know I shouldn’t say anything, but I can’t keep this secret another minute, I have to tell someone,” she whispers. My eyes travel down her left arm to her ring finger. A 4-carat sparkler graces her hand. I’m not sure why I do this. I realize that she hasn’t shared her name, but she was definitely drinking something. Suddenly I can’t wait to get airborne so that I can be served, the only perk of first class. “Okay,” I think, “I’ll play her little game.” I don’t pull away, but nod to allow her to continue
“There’s so much going on. The world is changing so fast. So much. Are you married, in a relationship? She asks.”
“I date.”
“What do you think of infidelity?”
I relax a bit, she’s just having an affair. Could be a good story and I want her to continue, so I don’t want to land on the wrong side of this question. “I don’t know. Things happen, you know?”
“That’s just it, everyone is so casual about vows. It’s like, why even get married?!” she exclaims.
“Ok…her husband had the affair,” I think. I take another look at that diamond. I think I could overlook an affair for a matching set of earrings.
“There’s a scandal going on right under the American peoples’ noses at the White house. An affair.”
“Oh, that’s nothing new, I say and wave my hand, swatting away her “scandalous secret”. “Which president was faithful? That’s a better story, honestly.”
“Our President is faithful! She exclaims and then looks around.”
We’re interrupted by the stewardess, “would you like a beverage?”
“Sauvignon Blanc,” we say almost in unison. It’s funny, so it breaks the tension. I lower my voice. “What are you talking about? Who’s having an affair?”
The stewardess comes back with two glasses of wine. BFFN takes a long sip. I follow suit. “She is,” she says and stares at me, letting it sink in. “And it’s gonna be a fuckin’ mess.”
Your plane is about to takeoff and the passenger next to you whispers to you, "I know I shouldn't say anything, but I can't keep this secret any longer, I have to tell someone"
ACTION!
With mere seconds to spare, I make it to the gate. “You almost missed your flight.”
“I’m …run…terminal 2…I… let’s go,” I lie and am out of breath. I was just running late, as usual.
The ticket agent nodded through my excuse, “It’s a full flight, you may have to check your bag.”
This irritates me. If I’d wanted to check my bag, I would have. I like being able to just go. No waiting for the conveyer belt to ever so slowly roll around with my luggage…hopefully.
“I’ll take my chances,” I tell her as I wheel my bag on to the plane.
A quick survey of the plane shows me that the ticket agent didn’t lie. “3B…3B…3B…” I chant as I make my way through the narrow asile. There’s someone sitting in my coveted seat. Of course there is. The seat next to the woman is open.
“You’re sitting in my seat,” I say through clenched teeth that hold my boarding pass. I don’t glance at her as I lift my bag up over my shoulder and into the overhead compartment. There’s just one other bag there.
“I am? Sorry,” the woman replied as she fumbled with the seat belt. “I’ve been so distracted. I just rushed to the airport.” She stopped suddenly.
I try to avoid eye contact. I don’t need or want to know this woman’s’ story. I just want a nice quiet flight back to Chicago. I check to make sure my iPad is in my carry-on. I’m thinking about how much battery I have left when I’m interrupted.
“Ma’am, please take your seat,” the stewardess reprimands me.
“Yes, that’s the general idea…” I motion toward the woman who suddenly remembered that she was supposed to move, “waiting for my seatmate here.” There’s no way I’m giving up my aisle seat, so I wait patiently.
I plop down in the seat and then buckle up. My neighbor stares at me and I freeze. I can’t hide behind my electronics until after takeoff.
“Are you based here in DC or Chicago?” she asks innocently. I know it’s just the beginning. I use this opportunity to get a good look at my new BFFN. She’s just disheveled, no more than regular road warriors, but she has a sense of refinement to her. The smell of patchouli just tickles my nose. And is that wine? My eye brow raises just a touch. I’m sure if I’d had time, I’d a had a dirty Ciroc with a lemon twist.
“I live in Chicago. Just here for business. And you?”
“Oh, I’ve lived in DC my whole life. I’ve been involved in politics for ever, it seems… You’re not into politics, are you dear?”
“I vote every four years. That’s about as political as I care to get.” BFFN seems to relax at this information. She’s so curious, I think. “I work in marketing. I extend my hand,” I’m Alyssa. Alyssa Wainwright.”
“Nice to meet you Alyssa,” she responds as she receives my hand and studies me.
The stewardess’ voice comes on PA system, we must prepare for takeoff.
BFFN leans in toward me and draws me closer to her, “I know I shouldn’t say anything, but I can’t keep this secret another minute, I have to tell someone,” she whispers. My eyes travel down her left arm to her ring finger. A 4-carat sparkler graces her hand. I’m not sure why I do this. I realize that she hasn’t shared her name, but she was definitely drinking something. Suddenly I can’t wait to get airborne so that I can be served, the only perk of first class. “Okay,” I think, “I’ll play her little game.” I don’t pull away, but nod to allow her to continue
“There’s so much going on. The world is changing so fast. So much. Are you married, in a relationship? She asks.”
“I date.”
“What do you think of infidelity?”
I relax a bit, she’s just having an affair. Could be a good story and I want her to continue, so I don’t want to land on the wrong side of this question. “I don’t know. Things happen, you know?”
“That’s just it, everyone is so casual about vows. It’s like, why even get married?!” she exclaims.
“Ok…her husband had the affair,” I think. I take another look at that diamond. I think I could overlook an affair for a matching set of earrings.
“There’s a scandal going on right under the American peoples’ noses at the White house. An affair.”
“Oh, that’s nothing new, I say and wave my hand, swatting away her “scandalous secret”. “Which president was faithful? That’s a better story, honestly.”
“Our President is faithful! She exclaims and then looks around.”
We’re interrupted by the stewardess, “would you like a beverage?”
“Sauvignon Blanc,” we say almost in unison. It’s funny, so it breaks the tension. I lower my voice. “What are you talking about? Who’s having an affair?”
The stewardess comes back with two glasses of wine. BFFN takes a long sip. I follow suit. “She is,” she says and stares at me, letting it sink in. “And it’s gonna be a fuckin’ mess.”
Friday, July 20, 2012
Garbage Salads are the BEST!
Business summer hours are a true thing of beauty! Whoever came up with the concept is a genius. You work your normal business week Monday through Thursday, and then you’re off at 2:00 on Friday just because it's summer. I usually just take off at one for a long leisurely lunch with no intention of returning until Monday. I think I’m the only corporate rebel who’s figured this out, but ahh well. Not everyone can be as smart as me.
Last week I went into the city for a hair appointment, and this week, I’m staying north and having a beautiful lunch at Biagi’s. It opened recently, and every time I eat here, I’m more impressed by this chain restaurant. That term usually has a negative connotation, but today, it’s really just a description. Today, however, nothing on the menu really caught my eye…that is until Sarah (friendly waitress) points out the specials menu. The first thing I see is the ‘Grilled Asparagus Salad’ and I gasp. “It sounds perfect!” I exclaim. Sarah says it’s her favorite on the specials menu, too.
Surely, they have to say that about all the menu items, so I just go with it. It reads delicious: grilled asparagus, blood oranges (that unsung star the show), soft boiled egg, oh my! I won’t divulge all, you’ll have to try for yourself, but I will say that every item on plate played like a symphony. I was a little worried about the truffle vinaigrette, thinking that the strong flavor of truffle would overshadow the other, more delicate essences, but it doesn’t! Textures and flavors all marry well…better than I did, but I digress. This peppery plate of wonderful should become a menu staple!
So here’s to summer hours, dirty martinis and garbage salads (my personal term for salads made up by the chef…usually me).
Regards,
Andrea
Last week I went into the city for a hair appointment, and this week, I’m staying north and having a beautiful lunch at Biagi’s. It opened recently, and every time I eat here, I’m more impressed by this chain restaurant. That term usually has a negative connotation, but today, it’s really just a description. Today, however, nothing on the menu really caught my eye…that is until Sarah (friendly waitress) points out the specials menu. The first thing I see is the ‘Grilled Asparagus Salad’ and I gasp. “It sounds perfect!” I exclaim. Sarah says it’s her favorite on the specials menu, too.
Surely, they have to say that about all the menu items, so I just go with it. It reads delicious: grilled asparagus, blood oranges (that unsung star the show), soft boiled egg, oh my! I won’t divulge all, you’ll have to try for yourself, but I will say that every item on plate played like a symphony. I was a little worried about the truffle vinaigrette, thinking that the strong flavor of truffle would overshadow the other, more delicate essences, but it doesn’t! Textures and flavors all marry well…better than I did, but I digress. This peppery plate of wonderful should become a menu staple!
So here’s to summer hours, dirty martinis and garbage salads (my personal term for salads made up by the chef…usually me).
Regards,
Andrea
Friday, July 13, 2012
Tip of the Day
So after a much needed break from the norm called Chicago, I vacationed in Puerto Rico a few weeks ago (it’s safe to say on the net now, as I’m back home and ne’re-do-wells alike can’t take advantage of this information).
On the trip, I set out to find something amazing to remember the time spent with family in the PR. Or if I’m to be honest, I just wanted something hot that I wouldn’t find in Chicago. Lots of things came to mind, but I quickly abandoned everything when I spotted my hat in Old San Juan.
Forever, it seems I’ve wanted a fedora, but just have never happened upon one that made me swoon until the trip. Actually, I found two such hats. Anyone who knows me, knows that I love a hat—it can transform me from hot to scalding in mere seconds. So when I saw my reflection in the mirror, the second hat was sold (I was too far from the first hat, which was probably my favorite, but I digress…I bought a hat!)
I wear said fedora EVERYWHERE, bad hair day or not. I live and work in the burbs—the ones north of Chicago where few of permanently tanned hue dare to live. My scalding look is a little lost on about half of these northern ‘burbanites (women), while city dwellers (most) relish my look. No worries, someone has to push the envelope, and I’m well known for that.
So I happen upon a restaurant opening in Libertyville. This spot sports an open and welcoming atmosphere with a fabulous patio open to the restaurant with seating just inside the doors which is very different for Libertyville, so I went in. Unfortunately, they were in brunch-only mode until 3:00, so my 1:00 drop by resulted in a “fail’. Not willing to just leave, and because I’d already set up my laptop and notes, I declined brunch, but ordered a slightly dirty Ciroc, up with a lemon twist (my favorite drink of the decade…I’m in search of the perfect dirty, new article for another time). I continue my edit of Her Essence in Death (insert shameless plug here) and enjoy the very open patio. When hunger takes over, I pay my waitress and leave through the patio. Her counterpart spies me leaving through the patio and nearly loses it trying to determine if I’ve paid my bill. *Interesting*
I travel just south for a bite to eat and continue editing. I stop by a spot I’ve dined before with no worries whatsoever (name withheld to protect the guilty). I change tables to avoid the blowing AC on my bare back, and I happen to move closer to the door. I finish my mediocre meal and focus solely on the book. The waitress, however, decides to stalk me for the check—here’s the tip of the day for both the stalker and the spazz: “Don’t assume that because I’m wearing a brown gangster, that I’m a brown gangsta’”. I attribute their rudeness to my little brown hat, and hopefully not my little brown self.
Regards,
Andrea
On the trip, I set out to find something amazing to remember the time spent with family in the PR. Or if I’m to be honest, I just wanted something hot that I wouldn’t find in Chicago. Lots of things came to mind, but I quickly abandoned everything when I spotted my hat in Old San Juan.
Forever, it seems I’ve wanted a fedora, but just have never happened upon one that made me swoon until the trip. Actually, I found two such hats. Anyone who knows me, knows that I love a hat—it can transform me from hot to scalding in mere seconds. So when I saw my reflection in the mirror, the second hat was sold (I was too far from the first hat, which was probably my favorite, but I digress…I bought a hat!)
I wear said fedora EVERYWHERE, bad hair day or not. I live and work in the burbs—the ones north of Chicago where few of permanently tanned hue dare to live. My scalding look is a little lost on about half of these northern ‘burbanites (women), while city dwellers (most) relish my look. No worries, someone has to push the envelope, and I’m well known for that.
So I happen upon a restaurant opening in Libertyville. This spot sports an open and welcoming atmosphere with a fabulous patio open to the restaurant with seating just inside the doors which is very different for Libertyville, so I went in. Unfortunately, they were in brunch-only mode until 3:00, so my 1:00 drop by resulted in a “fail’. Not willing to just leave, and because I’d already set up my laptop and notes, I declined brunch, but ordered a slightly dirty Ciroc, up with a lemon twist (my favorite drink of the decade…I’m in search of the perfect dirty, new article for another time). I continue my edit of Her Essence in Death (insert shameless plug here) and enjoy the very open patio. When hunger takes over, I pay my waitress and leave through the patio. Her counterpart spies me leaving through the patio and nearly loses it trying to determine if I’ve paid my bill. *Interesting*
I travel just south for a bite to eat and continue editing. I stop by a spot I’ve dined before with no worries whatsoever (name withheld to protect the guilty). I change tables to avoid the blowing AC on my bare back, and I happen to move closer to the door. I finish my mediocre meal and focus solely on the book. The waitress, however, decides to stalk me for the check—here’s the tip of the day for both the stalker and the spazz: “Don’t assume that because I’m wearing a brown gangster, that I’m a brown gangsta’”. I attribute their rudeness to my little brown hat, and hopefully not my little brown self.
Regards,
Andrea
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Barcito, Chicago, IL July 6, 2012
After an impromptu trip to the city and prior to my much needed hair appointment with the fabulous Mohammed, I stopped at Barcito, just down the street. I arrive an hour early (yes, me, I arrived early, though now I fear I may be late to my appointment due to the delicious atmosphere here!)
Having just returned from Puerto Rico, one would think I’d had my fill of "Mexican” cuisine, however, this isn’t Mexican cuisine, and neither was the food in Puerto Rico for that matter. These are Northern Spanish tapas and they are beautifully crafted and absolutely delicious. Everything is priced, $3-5 per bite; most items are settled atop a crostini. Delicious romescos, hazelnut picada, shrimp, goat cheese…oh, my!
Every bite is heaven and the service is grand…after the girl was replaced by Juan. Juan helps me interpret the menu and in that helps me focus on what flavors I truly desire at the moment. We land on the Shrimp Brochette and the escalivada…and the sangria which is made with Hennesy. I’m certainly ready for my pampering with Mohammed. I’ll try not to be late, which will be a second in all the years I’ve known him. Wish me luck!!!
Regards,
Andrea
Having just returned from Puerto Rico, one would think I’d had my fill of "Mexican” cuisine, however, this isn’t Mexican cuisine, and neither was the food in Puerto Rico for that matter. These are Northern Spanish tapas and they are beautifully crafted and absolutely delicious. Everything is priced, $3-5 per bite; most items are settled atop a crostini. Delicious romescos, hazelnut picada, shrimp, goat cheese…oh, my!
Every bite is heaven and the service is grand…after the girl was replaced by Juan. Juan helps me interpret the menu and in that helps me focus on what flavors I truly desire at the moment. We land on the Shrimp Brochette and the escalivada…and the sangria which is made with Hennesy. I’m certainly ready for my pampering with Mohammed. I’ll try not to be late, which will be a second in all the years I’ve known him. Wish me luck!!!
Regards,
Andrea
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