Once I finished chopping it up, my bacon bits, croutons, shredded cheese, pieces of hard boiled ostrich eggs, shredded onions, sunflower seeds, and culy noodles, with a hint of iceberg lettuce, came out pretty good. I also had taken a bowl of this extremely exotic soup, ,,,chicken.
Well, that's what the sign said, anyway, right Diane?
Diane?
But it was "white" chicken soup.
I never saw "white" chicken soup. To me, chicken soup is kinda yellow.
"It's because of all the sunlight," she told me. "The chickens are all albino."
As I was eating it, the nickel dropped in.
"Wait a minute!"
"All chickens are albino!"
And it didn't taste like chicken soup to me, not sure what it DID taste like, but it wasn't chicken soup.
Halfway through, I pushed it away.
We go back up there for the main courses, but, now I don't trust her.
Nope, not at all.
I think she wanted that piece of iceberg lettuce.
But this is the most critical time of all, when I need her help.
Salads are one thing, now we are talking major mystery meat.
"Honey? You still love me, right?"
"UP YOURS!"
Yep, she wanted that piece of iceberg after all.
I'm lost.
I can't trust her now. She has this evil smirk every time I ask her something, and if she does answer, it kept ending with, "Mbwhahahaha!"
I started putting some white stuff on my plate, it looked like a kind of potatoes, scalloped.
She stopped me. "Trust me, you don't want that." What is it?
"I don't know," she said, "I don't recognize the name from all ears menu."
" But it looks and smells like some kind of herring in a cauliflower based sauce."
Now, I have no idea if they even have yucky cauliflower in Africa, and I'm not really buying the herring bit either. But this little nebo isn't taking any chances.
Then I come across something that looks like smoked sausage.
"WHat's this"? I asked.
"Sausage".
" I know that, but what kind?"
"Sausage, that's all it says. "
Great. I took some.
Then I came across these things that looked like tater tots. Or Hush puppies. They gotta be safe, right? I put a bunch on my plate. I grabbed some bread, and since Smidgy was occupied, and I didn't trust her anymore anyway, I just took little tablespoons of things that I don't know what they are, and put them on my plate.
When she caught up to me, she looked at my plate, but didn't say a word.
Shoot. I still don't know if that's a good sign or bad.
With me leading, we got up to the carving kiosk.
"OH GEEZ! That things' still got a huge bone sticking out of it , or maybe a horn!"
"No, Steve, that's a skewer, it keeps the meat from falling apart."
"I knew that!"
"Just checking."
The guy there was slicing off prime rib, and one big chunk was lamb.
No, I don't like dead sheep. The smell really bothers me, so i got a slice of beef and hurried away.
I've still only got half a plate full, and went back against the grain looking for what I might have missed.
There has to be some kind of potatoes here, somewhere.
Just then a server came behind, and I cheated, and asked him.
He pointed me to a bin that at first didn't look like potatoes to me, so, I actually pretended to drop my napkin and squatted down to read the sign.
"Potatoe Afritude"
Yes, I think I have that right.
Well, I get enough "Afritude" as it is, I don't need any potatoes giveing me any more, so I passed on it, and grabbed a piece of bread.
Go ahead, find the butter. I dare you!
Back at the table, our waitress came by, who had the incredibly difficult task of bringing us our cokes, and, um, well, I guess, finding us again.
And I asked her for butter. It seemed like the logical , and easy way out , thing to do, right?
Au Contraire!
Whichever African country she originated in, evidently they don't have a word for butter. And the more I tried to explain it, the worse she got confused.
And then I did what I always do when I have a language problem with somebody.
I make this feeble attempt to talk in Spanish.
Which, I can't speak either.
"Senora? Uno buttero, por favor?"
yep, that'll work.
I was afraid it was about to get to the point where I am in the aisle on my hands and knees, with Diane standing behind me making the milking motion, and then grabbing the broom from the guy nearbye who was sweeping, and making the "churning" motion, but I got the message across by picking up my bread, and pretending to spread something on it with my knife.
'OH! You want Budder!"
"Si".
Ok, dinner actually was very good, believe it or not, I recommend the place.
I just wish my brain hadn't thought that the round type things that looked like tater tots hadn't also come up with the word, hush puppies.
It took me quite a while to get the "puppy" part out of my mind.
I believe they are really called "falefels" Or something really close.
And boy, are they good!
Tater tots with a kick!
And for once, I wasn't totally stuffed yet, and boy, am I glad.
I went back up to the desert table, totally on my own, and grabbed this here thing called a "Zebra Dome".
(wow, your old uncle nebo almost just made a very serious, accidental typo, that of course no one would believe. Probably wouldn't have gone through anyway.)
I hate using the phrase, "to die for" but the Zebra Domes come awful darn close.
Really, we liked it here a lot, it just blew away last nights' dinner at Shutters.
For a much more accurate dinner review at Boma's, please read Tiggerbell's Flower Power trip report, it's her last one, and includes many, many pictures.
Close ups. Of Zebra domes. Even from the inside, out.
That's it tonight, coming up, Epcot, and another classy restaurant review.
Abends, steve
