AH-lee-gay-tor...

Bruce decided to take me out to eat for July 4th.  That was nice.  Great in fact.  I got to spew forth about 10 different subjects before we were even accosted by our waiter.  I suffer forever from a type of repletion, full of strange thoughts that need to be aired.  I used to be able to put a lid on the activity.  Keep it on the inside so to er, not speak.  There used to be a switch I had in my brain, but I don't think it works anymore.  Kinda like suddenly getting Tourette's only I don't spew obscenities (except when I'm driving).  I normally handle such things within the hoveled halls of my own house, but since Gary moved in with me, I don't have that outlet anymore.  I have three brothers, and Jesse and Gary are not Bruce.  I could mumble away in Bruce's place, and he'd never lift a brow  -well, not at the fact that I subliminally vocalize.  He might at what I may say, but not at the fact that I do it.  Which may perhaps explain why I'm so manic on Tuesdays.  I don't usually interact with people through my long weekend, so I'm simply chock full of lame observations and weird thoughts that beg to be shared with the right audience.  Don't know if it's the desire to have someone nod knowingly and remark that they wondered the same thing, or just that I like getting weird looks.  I hope it's not the latter.

Anywho, he took me to Pappadeaux's, a sort of N'awlins seafood place.  He ordered an appetizer and we got drinks.  I inquired of our waiter in an admittedly wary tone, "That's real Coca-Cola, right?"  I have to ask that, for one answer -at an Olive Garden I think- was, "Yeah!  Well it's Pepsi, but absolutely!"  He kept saying that: "Absolutely!"  All eager and accommodating.  "Can I get that with a side of cauliflower?"  "Absolutely!"  "Can I get this wrapped?"  "Absolutely!"  "Can you recommend a good vodka?"  Yeah... that one sailed over his head.  I almost ended up with a glass of vodka.

Our eyes wandered over the rather loud clientele whilst we mostly caught up on our respective work atmospheres.  The appetizer arrived rather quickly.  I'd heard him order a crab cake, but if it was, it seemed buried in these er, edible twigs.  I know food presentation is a big thing in restaurants but I don't like being puzzled by my food.  "Um, Bruce did you order a teepee of old spaghetti?"  Food bafflement simply brings up unpleasant childhood memories.  ("Uh Numseh?  Is it supposed to glow in the dark?")  Bruce didn't let me indulge too long in probable explanations.  My mind was turning on parched coral reef?  Slivers of driftwood?  We were, after all, in a seafood place.  Maybe it was as simple as forgetting to boil the noodles?  Bruce can be very no-nonsense (which makes me wonder sometimes why he lets me hang out with him), but no sooner did the plate hit the table and he'd assessed the briar patch then he took up the tiny serving spoon to start digging.  Don't get me wrong, I still had a go... after o'course, Bruce seemed to survive the ordeal.  Born explorer, this brother of mine.  I can remember a time in Rome when we got sandwiches out of one of the garden cafes, and when I asked, he sanguinely remarked, "Well, it's a sandwich.  There's a bit of tomato, a leaf of lettuce, and a... a sponge."

These twigs made a sizeable pile, and I suddenly wanted to order them on the side.  "Yes waiter, can I have twigs on the side.  And if you have any cork, just grind it up and throw it across the salad."  But as I said, I tried it while I watched Bruce dig to the bottom to find the crab in its puddle of sauce.  I decided they were like biscotti, in that they're all crunch, no taste.  At least these twigs didn't create bread dough in your mouth when you try to wash it down.  We also found bits of lobster and shrimps strewn about the sauce as well as caper berries.  "Fiff, fiff, fiff!" as Hannibal would say, but I do like caper berries.  They can add a sudden bit of sour zing to what you're eating, whether it's crab cakes or a human liver I guess.  (And if human liver is anything like beef liver, then taste distraction is certainly necessary.)  Honestly, I think the twigs were shredded wheat, and I told Bruce that if he closed his eyes and had a bite without seafood, it'd be like having Cap'n Crunch's CrunchBerry cereal without the milk... and er, with sour CrunchBerries.  We had a giggle over that.

There was a young waiter taking orders at a nearby table.  I had the distinct impression there was something of a language barrier problem, for he seemed to be attempting to sell the Asian couple on the idea of alligator steaks.  That Pappadeax's version wasn't like other restaurants.  Kept insisting his were 'quite good'.  It seemed drawn out for our waiter hadn't pushed reptilian meat on us, and I wondered whether this was because Bruce and I don't look our weird heritage of Atlantic Scotch-Pacific Islander, and perhaps white-bread corn-fed Americans don't go in much for your weirder varieties of buried duck recipes or filet of pickled iguana.  I'm actually right there with that statement.  Call me unadventurous, but the weirdest I'm willing to get (outside of my own cooked meals) is an ostrich or bison burger occasionally.  I for one don't wanna look down at my plate and see something looking up at me, eyeing me just as guardedly.  In my head, I could see all those National Geographic episodes of those drying up river courses and thousands of gnus making the jump and crossing, each one thinking to themselves, "Stay to the middle!  Just be faster than the guy next to you!"  Alligator steaks couldn't be too terrifically bad.  I doubt they'd include the head portion, but it just sounded too...  too reptilian and full of teeth to consider gastronomically.

Alligator steaks, yeah...  I leaned over to Bruce and whispered conspiratorially, "Don't DO it!  It's a croc!"

I didn't time it right.  He wasn't drinking at the time.