Monday, June 8, 2009
It's my twenty eighth birthday. For a treat, I wanted to go to the Roadhouse, Public's House patch of Southern BBQ and beer in Brookline. I ventured here to find good American beer and yes, vegetarian BBQ... it's possible. I love how the Roadhouse captures the parallels of rock'n'roll debauchery and southern soul cuisine. Ever have a fried pickle? You're at the right place.
I wanted to try their catch of the day: fried fish, the most decadent of southern cuisine. I, like the commis grad student, couldn't afford to go out to eat every night. Now, I am ordering the season's catch with cajun spice and sinful goodness. I'm glad that I have the luxury of treating myself in a time of being stint.
One tiny chomp and my tongue goes numb. The adrenalin of the meal is evaporating as quickly as my tastebuds. I smell something off now. This is the only thing I ever spat out. It was involuntary. My friends also notice the stench from my plate.
As far as I can make out, the fish isn't fresh. It's Saturday, not a Monday where in the restaurant business is common knowledge the worst day to order fish. I send back the order. The manager reassures me that he wouldn't serve anything that wasn't fresh. I'm not reassured. He does a walk of denial over to the kitchen with my rancid fish, exchanging my meal for a veggie burger with smiling politeness. Round II, I was happy, all was good again.