The menu made me an offer I couldn't refuse: French onion soup on a cool windy day.
When the cup arrived, I experienced another "Godfather" moment. This one was the one in the third installment in which Michael kvetches about his lot in life:
"Just when I think I'm out, they pull me back in."
Faster than you can say "scenery chewer," I said to myself:
"Just when I think I'm having lunch, they make me work."
Today I ate lunch at a bistro I've reviewed favorably. It was meant to be a recreational lunch with a co-worker.
And it was recreational for most of my soup. I didn't notice that something was missing until the waiter delivered a plate containing two slices of baguette topped with melted cheese. Seems the kitchen forgot to include them in my soup, as French onion soup is supposed to be served.
Then I kicked into critic mode: The broth was mild, almost under-salted, and the onions were under-cooked, still crunchy. The crab cakes looked dry.
Up until then, I was just having lunch with a friend. Food was the least of my interests.
I wound up working.
What the heck.
Beats sleeping with the fishes.