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Back From Dallas

I think I’m gonna make up one of those tee-shirts:

I WENT TO DALLAS
FOR FOURTEEN HOURS
AND ALL I GOT TO SHOW
IS A GODDAMN COLD!

but…
I did see that (butt ugly from the outside) stadium Tuna calls home these days–three frackin’ times!–while trying to figure out “Loop 12 N” because Mapquest totally sucks and the Texas Highway Authority (or whatever they are called) are a particular brand of malevolent in the way they decided to position their road signage. It was the most insanely structured road system I’ve ever encountered.

We did, however, eat a couple hella mean pieces of beef at Rick Stein’s Steakhouse after our duty was done.

If you ever go to Dallas, go see Rick; he’s the guy standing right at the door when you walk up to the place, looking like a well-dressed bouncer. He’ll say “Good Evening!” and when you answer “Howyadoin?” replies, “we got New York here tonight!” while he holds open the front door. He kept smiling when I said “No, Jack, you got Staten Island; there’s a difference,” and tossed back “Well I just hope you’re hungry!”
I was floored when, later in the evening, I found out he actually owned the joint.

The room is gorgeous; the wait staff is spectacular (although the idea that I had to pull out my ID when I said “big glass of whatever single malt is closest to the bartender’s hand” when asked if I wanted anything to drink after we were seated was odd… I haven’t looked “proof him” in a generation; Wife thought it hilarious, though: “The look on your face!”). The waitress explained it was because, under Texas’s convoluted statutes, Rick’s is considered a “private” club. I thought it was a bogus explanation, but hey? When in Rome….

Our waitress (I’m an idiot for being unable to remember her name, but I do remember she lives in Plano) chatted us up once she had us settled and lubricated. When she asked “So what brings you to Dallas?” Wife says “a funeral” at the same time I say “a dead body” (yes, when I’m in a bad mood, I am a total fucking asshole). Wife kicks me under the table and Waitress smacks my arm when I say “Ow!” and says “Hush up. You earned that.”

Waitress says, “I’d like you to cut it right down the middle for me,” after placing the plates in front of us, “so I’m sure they cooked it right.” The food was simply awesome; a twelve ounce hunk of medium rare, heaven-bound dead cow right there on my plate, surrounded by crispy veggies and a mound of mashed taters. We plough through the meal, Waitress checking in now and then to see if we need anything. After we polish it all off and are sipping our post-meal coffees, Mr. Stein comes over with Waitress, brandishing two sizable glasses of something he declares “there’s twelve different liqueurs in there, Staten Island. Welcome to Dallas. We wish you come back here on better days.”

I’ll go back in a heartbeat, but I sure as hell ain’t doing the driving next time.

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