Marty Graham 5:30 p.m., Oct. 24
Rush lobster job at The Local
No time to finsh the lobster, a lifetime to regret it
You know how things you have to rush are the best?
You kinda have memory flashes of the hot dog you couldn’t finish, or the beer you couldn’t chug before you had to go catch a stretch limo.
Happened to me.
I’m sprinting down C, turn left onto Fourth, heading for the bus stop at 3rd and Broadway.
Notice a sign, black on purple.
Hear the crowd.
See a smug guy munching on steaming-hot French fries.
What thu heck. Check the watch. Ten minutes. Veer inside. Leap on stool. Look around. Face a sign.
“Drink enough beer and you will start to see the ocean view.”
Finally, focus. This is The Local Eatery & Drinking Hole (1065 Fourth Avenue, downtown, 619-231-4447).
Matt and Sean, two big fellas, are working behind the bar.
Explain my problem. Hunger. Thirst. Time.
“Not a prob,” says Sean. “Try the Green Flash Belgian Blonde. Slightly sweet, and dry. Only 6 percent. Goes well with our lobster taco.”
He rams a menu in front of me. Oh yeah.
“Local’s Lobster Tacos. Plump lobster slipper tails lightly seasoned and fried. Topped with cabbage, cheese, pico de gallo and our house white sauce, on flour tortillas. Served with black beans and jasmine rice, $10.95. A la carte, $4.95.”
“Deal,” I say. “For the a la carte.”
Result: in unbelievable quicktime, that sucker appears before me, along with the Belgian Blonde.
Beer’s definitely sippable. But man, it’s that lobster taco that achieves total lift-off on Mission Deliciosity.
Plenty of actual lobster, and that white sauce helps the slipper tails slip right on down.
Only problem. Three minutes to go, and counting. I do one mighty python-eats-whole-pig drop-jaw chomp, try to slurp the Belgian, achieve total throatal blockage.
Everything stops. Take an en-tire minute to recover, tap out begging message in morse code to Matt or Sean to pack the rest.
I pay up ($12.34, $4.95 for the lobster taco, rest for the brewski and tax), fall off stool, hit the ground running.
At the entrance, at the risk of turning to stone like…Lazarus, wasn’t it? No. Lot. No, Lot's wife. Looked back on Sodom. Turned into a pillar of salt… Whatev, I turn for one last longing look at the two thirds of my beer I left behind. A shaft of light hits it, golden, sparkling, on the counter.
Still, make the bus.
Only problem left: eating the rest of this dee-lish taco without the bus driver catching me.
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