Journalists like to think we're prepared for anything. Yeah, well ... I went to the bathroom and missed the on-stage fight at the Snoop Dogg show at White River a couple years back. Stuff happens.
Something happened Saturday night near the end of dinner:
A big fat fly the size of a raisin emerged from the succotash and hobbled across the table.
Did the fat fly land on the plate? It was a warm night on the mountain, the dining room door was open, the air inside hung.
Never miss a local story.
Did the fat fly get cooked into the dish? It had emerged from the succotash. The fly looked stunned and hobbled, unable to fly. Was that a sheen of sauce on its wings and body?
I had no clue what to.
Atavistic instinct kicked in.
I picked up the glass candle votive and chased the hobbled fly across the table -- trying to smash it as it hobbled under the lip of the bread plate, behind the Coke bottle, and finally off the edge of the table.
Stuff happens, even to -- or perhaps especially to -- restaurant critics.