Bleakness on West Lynn: the scrumpy washroom at one of Austin’s premier face-stuffing destinations.
Sometimes Jeffrey’s is the best restaurant in Austin, so the fam took me there for my birthday the other day. Despite the fact that super-weird appetite-supressant/Texas Lt. Guv David Dewhurst was sitting a throwed roll away, I ate everything.
There were fried oyster nachos, which are storied and rightly so. These oysters appear to have mass, but are in fact composed of imaginary filaments, and as such are completely unaffected by gravity, and so must be swatted into the mouth as they float by.
Then there was “chilled sweet pea soup” with a smoked shrimp floating in it. The pea soup part was frivolous, ethereal spiffiness-in-a-bowl, but I swore the shrimp was foot-funky, like a shrimp that has been rode hard and put away wet altogether more often than is recommended by today’s shrimpsperts. Stingray tested this suspect derelict shrimp and declared that I had my head up my ass. The specimen, she averred, was an upstanding representative of its species. It had probably won awards for citizenship and philshrimpopy. We should be throwing it a goddam tickertape parade, according to Stingray, instead of casting these baseless aspersions.
It turns out that even 3 weeks out of chemo, my tastebuds still can’t be trusted around certain crustaceans.
Then there were a couple of lamb chops with a cherry sauce, which were sadly sort of tough, but still way better than the frozen pizza I would have had if I’d stayed home, and some corn pone, which was poney, and finally a meyer lemon custard with a birthday candle in it, which you see above, and some tawny port. Can I get a hell-yeah for some tawny port to take the edge off a 2-hour dinner with the fam?
Then I went to the bathroom. For a joint where you can spend $150 a person without even breaking a sweat, the can at Jeffrey’s is pretty Soviet.
I am 47. Hip fuckin hooray.