It must have been wig night at Joe's Crab Shack last night. I saw three, one on an elderly lady with a walker, one on a lady in church clothes and one I could hardly believe, a shockingly obvious toupee on a middle-aged man. You know the kind, the synthetic shine, the obtuse hairline, the kind you feel like apologizing for when you notice it. I'm sorry I didn't mean to. Thankfully they weren't all sitting at the same table.
I hadn't meant to go to Joe's Crab shack. While it was true I've been craving crustacean for the past couple of days, I had decided to walk to the Whole Foods store instead for a rotisserie chicken and a bottle of red wine (the apartment was dangerously dry). I know you're supposed to drink white wine with chicken but I needed a lusty red to go with the chocolate cake I bought a couple of days ago.
I don't know what happened, one day I was in love with tiramisu, the next I was having uncontrollable urges for chocolate cake. Not just any chocolate cake - the perfect chocolate cake: lush, rich, moist, chocolaty but not sugary. Not flourless; that's a whole other category. I've been on a mission to find it ever since. So far the Palm (of all places) has the best chocolate cake. Believe me I don't joke about cake. I can tell you the best I've ever had of anything. I can't remember dates to save my life but I can tell you the best glass of milk I've ever had. In case you're wondering it was in Solvang, California, at this place called the Mustard Seed. The glass was frosted, the milk frothy, icy-cold richness. I had to have two just to be sure.
So I walk into Whole Foods intent. I am immediately accosted by a barrage of Tom's footed zealots trying to get me to contribute to their charity or cause. I literally had to fight to get to a shopping basket. It was just like that scene in the movie Airplane when the main character takes out, kung fu style, all the religious groups at the airport. I considered throwing them over my shoulder too but I didn't want to upset the grapefruits.
One fanatic peels away from the mass and stuffs a pamphlet in my basket, droning into my ear that 5% of every purchase today is given to the blah blah blah and adds that perhaps in addition to my purchases I might consider buying some of the things on the list in the pamphlet. I absolutely hate being guilted into giving. It doesn't make me feel generous; it makes me feel extorted.
I go to the hot meal cart. There are no chickens. I can smell them but they're not there. Just the essence of them. You have Got to be Kidding. I'm crestfallen. I walk through the store aimlessly hoping by some miracle to find them some place else. Nope. I return the basket and the pamphlet and walk out chickenless. Sigh.
Clearly this is a sign and I must now walk across the street to eat what I was really craving - snow crab.
Two women are waiting in front of the vacated reception desk. A few minutes later they are joined by two men who are surprised they still haven't been seated. It seems they've been waiting for a while. A few minutes later a random employee walks by and questions whether anyone has been helped. We haven't been. After a total of seven minutes a ingenuous girl comes over, acting surprised she has guests and tries to cover up her lack of attention with a "how are we all doing tonight".
She takes the party of four, turns and says she'll be with me in a minute. I doubt it. Five minutes later she walks by with the bartender, stops in the hallway to continue her conversation, while I stand there, in plain view, by myself, glaring at her. She giggles an apology and then tries to seat me at the worst table in the restaurant. I make her move me.
It takes 12 minutes, and only because I started casting dirty looks at anyone in a uniform, before my waitress realizes I'm alone and in serious need of a drink. She apologizes profusely. I order a glass of wine and the crab. The wine comes. The bib and bucket of condiments comes. The hot butter comes. She apologies again. I look up from my bib and order another glass of wine. It's around this time I start noticing all the wigs. There are three birthday humiliation ceremonies while I wait. I make a mental note to never come here on my birthday because I don't want to have to wear a silly hat and carry a wand around the restaurant while total strangers sing happy birthday.
This isn't the Joe's Crab shack I remember. It's feeling more like a slightlier upscale Red Lobster. Which let's face it; that's why I was craving crustacean to begin with, all those damn Red Lobsterfest commercials. Have you ever actually been to a Red Lobster? The commercials are very convincing; the food is not. Advertising works.
Sitting next to me is a couple on a date. She has clearly had a very bad run in with some peroxide and a make-up case. She reminds me of the Riddler. He is doing everything he can not to look at her. It's so bad at one point I wanted to tell him to stop looking over. I thought maybe a TV was over my head. It wasn't.
All the female employees stand in the aisles and do a line dance. Perfect. I think I may have stumbled into the twilight zone.
By the time the crab actually appears the butter has congealed. There are four crab legs, two boiled baby red potatoes and one small ear of corn. I eat it all. It's mediocre. But I'm starving and my brain has been numbed by the public humiliations and wigery. The carnage is removed and my bill appears immediately. She didn't charge me for one of the wines.
I lay down a credit card but I never get a receipt to sign. I query the waitress. She brings me a receipt but I haven't left a tip. Suddenly I feel sorry for her. I slip a twenty dollar bill into the sleeve - a 40% tip. She needs the charity.
Speaking of charity, I stop by Whole Foods on my way back to the apartment for the red wine. The zealots have all gone home. I guess solicitors only work till 5p.
The hot meal cart is filled with aromatic chickens. They mock me. I am forced to buy a really good bottle of wine. It's called the Prisoner. I get it home. It's delicious with the chocolate cake. It might not be the Palm's but it's pretty darn good. I got it at Bristol Farms. It's called an Old Fashioned. I bought the three incher. Basically it's like a ding dong but made with real ingredients, not things you can't pronounce.
The ding dong and the prisoner make it all better.
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