Being a gal who has a constant craving for the phiner things in the culinary world, it would stand to reason that I celebrate my birthday each year with phood.
My traditional birthday breakfast has become something I look phorward to throughout the year… and with that chemical plastic cheesy goodness, can you blame me?
(As a side note, the Sausage McMuffin was a drive thru error in my phavor. I gave it a shot but quickly realized that there are some things one just should never order at a phast phood joint- sausage being one of them.)
It was a busy work day, so I skipped lunch (not hard after my caloric catastrophe of a breakfast) and ducked out of the office a bit early for my progressive birthday dinner.
“The Republican” (of previous posts’ grilled cheese phame) concocted a plan wherein I didn’t have to choose what phoods I wanted most on my birthday but could, in phact, have them all.
It started at Hula’s for Blood Orange Martinis…
One reveller joined us at this point and helped toss a phew back and noshed on some Spicy Edamame.
Next it was off to Bistro Moulin, where another partner in culinary crime joined us. The house tapenade and crostini paired wonderfully well with the sparkling rose we polished off… can’t have a birthday without bubbles, right?
If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times (which really isn’t possible, because other than my brief attempt to make my own escargot in the hot tub drain around age phive, I didn’t start loving the magnificent mollusks until high school- and there is no way I’ve talked about escargot a million times in phifteen years… well, hmm… might be a tiny bit possible…)
The wildest reveller of them all joined us as we pulled up to Rio Grill and dove into some of those delicious Blood Orange Margaritas I’ve mentioned a time or two. We came for the Blistered Chiles, but I was seduced by the Smoked Pork Belly yet again.
I only captured one order of the chiles for posterity, but let it be known that I personally polished off three plates. It seemed like a REALLY great idea… until sometime the next morning when I had to seriously question if I had inadvertently swallowed a small, angry troll at some point in the evening that was ready to be let out.
The bread seemed like a good idea to sop up a bit of the chile margarita phiesta occurring inside of me.
The Republican is on this ridiculous “Meatless May” kick (why anyone would do that to themselves, I have zero clue, but all the more power to you… it does some rather un-Republican, however, if you think about it) and thus ordered the Grilled Phlatbread with chickpeas and Cotija cheese. I honestly don’t remember if I liked it or not.
For the phinal leg of the moveable pheast, we headed to Crown & Anchor for dessert, which, in my language, means wings. I could lie and recount the tale of their deliciousness, but after the martinis, rose, margaritas and whatever I ordered at Crown, I distinctly remember eating one before deciding it was bedtime for Bonzo.
Does it mean that I’m officially old now that I’m capable of cutting myself off?