The Lady of the House needs to get a job as a food critic. This dawned on me on our recent vacation to the Texas Gulf Coast.
We had been driving all day and were driving through the central Texas night when a sign lit up the darkness: “BEST BAR-B-Q AHEAD.”
The Lady of the House and I looked at each other and said, “Let’s eat barbecue tonight.”
We settled into our motel and moseyed on over to the big restaurant that promised so many barbecued delights I didn’t know what to think.
“Mmm, I love these homemade mashed taters,” I said through a mouthful of taters and cream gravy.
“Instant,” said The Lady of the House looking over the top of her glasses.
“Oh,” I said. I was raised in hotels. This stuff tasted pretty good to me.
“Mmm, I love a good batch of home-style ranch pintos,” I said through a mouthful of spicy beans. “Probably slow cooked all day.”
“Canned,” said The Lady of the House.
“Well, look how pretty and colorful this carrot is,” I said as I stabbed one of the tender vegetables.
“Canned AND tasteless,” said The Lady of the House.
I took a bite. Daggone, she was right, no flavor.
I picked up a roll.
“Now you can’t tell me this isn’t made right here in this restaurant. Delicious, dripping with sweet creamery butter.”
“That’s ‘Pop’n Fresh’ dough and that’s NOT butter,” she said.
I put my fork down and looked The Lady of the House square in the eye.
“What do you want from a restaurant,” I asked.
“I don’t ask for much,” she said. “Can’t someone boil a potato or throw some flour in a pan and make some gravy?”
Yep, I think The Lady of the House would make a fine food critic.
Or restaurant owner.