Friday, January 18, 2002
There's something I don't understand. Sometimes, when I order wine at a semi-nice restaurant, they'll serve it to me not in a traditional wine glass, but in a short, cylindrical, normal-looking one. Why is this? Is there a charm in small glasses that I'm not seeing? I remember being in Italy and witnessing the same phenomenon, but at the time I just chalked it up to cultural differences. Now I'm not so sure.
I fully admit I know piffle about wine, though smarter people than myself have explained that there is a purpose to the way a wine glass is shaped. So why would any restaurant that cares enough about wine to publish a wine list come up short in the glassware department? Is it too costly to carry regular wine glasses? Too bothersome to wash them? Too trendy to use them? None of those reasons seem to hold water. So to speak.
Not that any of this puzzlement affected my ability to enjoy my wine or my meal. Be a glass cylindrical, bulbous, fluted -- wine still tastes like wine to me. Like I said, piffle. I get into all this because I want to do right by our customers, when it comes to that. So I continue to wonder: what's the reason?>
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Thursday, January 17, 2002
Mental note: keep our waiters away from the funny pages.
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Sunday, January 13, 2002
In honor of the new year, here's a glimpse of what you can expect from M.O.A.R. in 2002:
January: Luke spends the entire month hunched over his keyboard, writing, though barely a word will be about restaurants. Nope, Luke's writing a novel -- 50,000 words, no less, maybe a little more -- and if he manages to squeeze out more than a couple words for this blog, I'll be surprised. (Besides the two posts he already made, of course. Luke, get back to work already!)
February: The blog turns one year old. There was going to be a big party, but Luke will be travelling in Europe the whole month, so it looks like it'll just be me and my laptop on a nice night out on the town. Expect YACMIs from abroad that involve smashing plates over our customers' heads and dressing our waitstaff in togas and olive branch wreathes.
March: We're driven to promise to never serve green-tinted anything, unless Ma Nature intended it that way.
April: La Cumbamba reopens to much fanfare. By "much fanfare," I mean "Luke and Sandy lead a two-person parade up and down North Avenue waving a banner and the Columbian flag." We subsequently spend the entire month talking about how inspired we are by William.
May: One or the both of us get laid off from our jobs. We briefly flirt with the idea of starting down the long path of restaurant ownership, presumably by getting a job as a dishwasher. Instead, we decide that we're still better suited at coming up with ideas than with implementing them, and it's best that, for the time being, we try to build up capital with more real jobs.
June: More weddings, more chain restaurants, more griping about the sorry state of authentic American cuisine.
July - December: In an extreme act of our dedication to fulfilling even the weakest of jokes, all posts in these six months are just copies of those in first six months, but in backwards order. This is owed, of course, to 2002 being the year of the palindrome.
Happy New Year!
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