Last night my husband and I ate at Cool Hand Luke’s Steakhouse/Saloon for the first time.
Mainly because we got a gift card for Christmas, and we’re cheap frugal, but that’s neither here nor there.
Within two minutes of walking in the door, we were seated at an enormous booth, big enough to seat six. Which was awesome, because we were on a romantic anniversary date and were able to share one side of the booth without feeling like we were packed in like sardines.
Our drinks arrived quickly – a full glass of tasty Pinot Grigio for me, a humongous, frosty mug of Bud Light (draft) for Jeremy.
Soon after, our salads, baked beans and sourdough rolls arrived.
The ranch dressing was so incredibly creamy, it completely made up for the plain, iceberg lettuce salad. The sourdough rolls had been brushed with butter while still warm, and were crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, just how I like them. I let Jeremy have one, but only because it was our anniversary.
And the baked beans? Let me just tell you – I am not a huge fan of baked beans. But these were delicious. I avoided the jalapenos, left whole just for that purpose, I assume.
Also, thank you, Cool Hand Luke’s, for serving the baked beans in a little separate pot, because I would have been less happy with my food if it had been served with baked bean liquid all over the plate.
Smart thinking!
Finally, on to the main course. I ate every. single. bite. of a 10 ounce prime rib.
Wonderfully seasoned, perfectly cooked – medium, the way I like it. I didn’t lick the plate, but only because there was a little girl sitting at the next table and I didn’t want to teach her any bad manners.
On a side note, I loved the dark cloth napkins – perfect for a place where paper napkins just wouldn’t have held up.
I was less than enamored with the garlic red mashers, but that’s not Poor Luke’s fault. It’s mine Kimberly’s. I love Kim’s mashed potato recipe so much, all others are tasteless in comparison. I need to just stop ordering them in restaurants, because they’ll never measure up.
Jeremy had Tri-tip and french fries, which he let me taste. Because, you know… 10 ounces of my own meat just wasn’t enough. The fries were very tasty, especially dipped in the ranch. Jeremy said the tri-tip was good while it was hot, but not so much as it cooled off. He thinks it’s because he ordered it medium-well, instead of Medium. Totally his fault.
We also ordered a side of shrimp, which had been forgotten somewhere along the line, and so to make up for us having to wait, they tried to comp us our entire meal.
The whole, delicious meal, people. All. of. it.
Which, hell no. We are cheap frugal, but we’re not about to accept a $50 meal for free just because of some late-arriving shrimp. Especially not when the restaurant was clean, well designed to allow for a romantic date or a family meal, the food was beyond delicious and the service was stellar: from the hostess desk to the server, to the bussers stopping by to pick up dishes we were finished with.
We let them comp us the $5 shrimp, but left a 32% tip. And I ate the shrimp for lunch today. YUM.
Overall Review:
With a stuffed, round belly and a loosened belt, I give Cool Hand Luke’s *FIVE* big belches.
*Just in case the title wasn’t clear enough: This was an un-solicited, un-paid review.*
Category: Food
Categories
Slippery Slope
I’m eating ice cream again. For the third time today.
I spent 10 hellacious days giving up sugar, but like a newly sober alcoholic, I thought I’d be strong enough to have an occasional treat without falling into the abyss.
But oh, delicious sugar. How it coaxed me with its chocolaty goodness on my weakest days.
And so I fell. Hard.
I’ve enjoyed it, I can’t lie. But I’m sick. I can’t stop.
The sugar, it calls to me from the shelves of the store.
Somehow, it’s taken control of my fingers and forced me to endlessly shove ever-sweeter treats into my salivating mouth.
My face is puffy. My stomach is bloated and crampy. I’ve gained 5 pounds in 7 days.
But still, I can’t resist.
Like a lion on a gazelle, I pounce at every opportunity.
Dammit. Here I go again, giving it up. Getting Sugar Sober.
Prepare yourselves for what’s to come. It won’t be pretty.
Categories
Funny, I Don’t FEEL Cleaner
Hi, my name is Andrea and I am an addict.
A sugar addict. I loves me some sugar.
In the past few months, I’ve been consuming more sugar than could possibly be healthy. So, 8 days ago I started a 10-day sugar cleanse/fat-burning diet.
I gave up sugar, carbs other than a piece of fruit every 3 days, and alcohol. And since the Starbucks Vanilla Frappuccino is the only coffee I like, I gave up coffee, too. Go ahead, call me crazy.
The first few days were painful, I won’t lie. The withdrawals were heinous. I was cranky, tired, and irritable.
And cranky. And tired. And irritable some more.
I ate more vegetables in a 7 day period than I had in the 6 prior months. And, people? I eat a lot of vegetables. I also ate over two pounds of heavenly sugar-free, lower-sodium bacon. Mmm, bacon.
I made it through a birthday party and an all-day anniversary party. Cake smells delicious, do you know that? And its scent can waft all the way across a yard and into the waiting nostrils of a person on day 6 of a 10-day sugar cleanse/fat-burning diet.
And when faced with all the deliciousness that is home-made potato salad, macaroni salad, and freshly baked rolls as far as the eye can see, a determined person can eat a plain garden salad with some cut up tri-tip sprinkled on top.
As long as that person has brought along a gallon of their own special iced tea, sweetened with Truvia, which, in case you didn’t know, is God’s gift to a person on a 10-day sugar cleanse/fat-burning diet who can’t have artificial sweeteners because they make her grow cysts in her mouth. And possibly other places, but let’s not try it out to see where they’d grow next.
On day 7, (that’s 168 hours without sugar, in case you were counting) along came Father’s Day. We had my parents over for dinner and they brought over a loaf of garlic bread. I poured them some wine. I may have whimpered. And then my husband asked me to stop the damn diet and have some real food.
So I did. I had half a loaf of garlic bread and 4 glasses of wine. Today, I drank a pepsi. But other than that? I haven’t splurged. Haven’t craved sugar, sugar, sugar all the live long day like I did before.
I may have only made it through 7 days, but I’m pretty sure I licked my sugar habit.
It tastes like… bacon.
I was stopped at a red light the other day, when a donut shop on the corner caught my attention. It’s been there for a decade or so, but I still feel surprised (and slightly horrified) whenever I notice they are still in business.
Fresh Donuts. Yes, I bet those donuts are fresh, but you’ll never catch me eating them.
What have donuts ever done to me, you ask? Not a thing.
But once, long ago, that building housed a Taco Bell. A Taco Bell that became known by another, less appetizing name.
Sadly, although the donut place does seem to stay in business, no one I know calls it “the donut shop on such and such corner”. It is, and will always be, “the place where Shit in the Beans Taco Bell used to be“.
It was called Shit in the Beans Taco Bell for a reason. People ate human feces mixed in with their beans. Dozens of people. If I had been one of them, I’d still be brushing my teeth, and possibly gargling acid. And then I’d still feel dirty.
It’s not an urban myth, but a true incident that made our local paper, resulted in someone being fired and given jail time, and the eventual closure of said Taco Bell. Because no one but ignorant out-of-towners ever set foot in that building again.
Sure, they probably washed the place out. The Health and Safety Inspector had to have been all over that place. But would you walk in there and order a bean burrito, all the while thinking of Shit in the Beans?
Exactly. I won’t even order a donut.
Prior to Blythe’s diagnosis of being allergic to corn and egg, I was blissfully ignorant of the plight of the food allergic. Sure, I felt sympathy for all the label reading going on. But true empathy is only possible, I think, when you take on the responsibility of caring for a food allergic child.
To that end, I would love to share this article published in Family Magazine of Washington, and forwarded to me by the KFA Organization (KFA= Kids with Food Allergies). The article, titled Attack of the Killer Peanut Butter Sandwiches, focuses on peanuts in the lunchroom, but gives a great overall feel for what life is like for a food allergic child. Go read it – if you’re a parent, I promise you’ll be glad you did.
The more experience I gain having a child with food allergies, the more worried I get about her future. Right now, at 15 months, I control not only what Blythe eats but the environments in which she spends her time. I know for a fact that there are no allergens lurking around my home or that of my mother, where Blythe goes while I work.
But as she gets older, Blythe will be exposed to more people, places and things. That is a fact of life. The preschool she will eventually attend is already well aware of her allergies, and has some great policies in force to help us cope with them. But again, that is a very controlled environment, where I am confident she will be diligently watched every time food is present. I am also quite pleased with how meticulous they are about cleanliness – because we all know kids and crumbs go hand in hand.
However. The future holds elementary school, parties, play dates at other people’s homes and even airline travel and hotel stays, where I will have no idea what life-threatening allergens are hiding on the bed where she sleeps. After all, Blythe will only fit in the pack-n-play for so long.
It is with trepidation that I look forward, and it saddens me. Finally, I have a child who is happy to do things without my constant presence, and yet I cannot rest if she is not with me for fear of the phone call I might get.
No one wants that phone call – no mother deserves it.