fair warning: this post is mostly pointless. you may want to hang up now. unless you are The Rogue who must continue reading as punishment for not capitalizing his name in a recent post to the boston board and subsequently causing this author to wonder periodically ALL DAY "why didn't The Rogue capitalize his name?" You are a naughty, naughty rapscallion, Mr. Rogue.
It was a beautiful sunday afternoon. Psmith was restless. He had spent much of the afternoon writing amusing lyrics to songs that will never be recorded for his band which doesn't exist (but does have a name, mind you -- Renal Failure). Something in his stomach, or possibly his loins, was stirring. Psmith, you see, was not a med student and his interest in human biology and anatomy was limited to certain highly specialized areas, so it was unclear to him exactly where the stomach ended and the loins began. This fact did not worry him though, as the exact provenance of the sensation was subordinate to its interpretation -- Psmith was hungry.
Deciding to be industrious he traded his notepad and guitar (left handed '92 Ibanez RG550. (floating bridges are *evil* and if anyone wants to donate a left handed Paul Reed Smith to my cause, please get in touch)) for his new Naked Chef cookbook, flipped through it, and decided to create "salmon fillet wrapped in prosciutto with herby lentils, spinach and yogurt" with perhaps a spot of "salad of boiled potatoes, avocado, and mustard cress". These specific decisions were made, of course, based on Psmith's deep and profound self-knowlege regarding what would make his body happiest at that moment. They had absolutely nothing to do with pretty pictures glimpsed when flipping randomly through the book. Having copied the salient bits from the ingredients lists into his tiny pocket-size notebook thingie, our hero sallied forth with every intention of gettin' busy in the kitchen anon.
But it was not to be so. For as he guided his trusty steed to the local salmon purveyor doubts crept into his consciousness. Did he really feel like cooking? It was unclear. Needless to say Psmith was soon reeling in a spasm of self-doubt. His much vaunted self-knowledge was now cast in serious, mad, crazy doubt. Psmith needed solace, and fast, so he turned to that serene oasis of Thai splendor, Khao Sarn.
In an unsteady state Psmith ambled into Khao Sarn seeking succour, or at least some Yen Ta Fo Noodle Soup, which he had noticed on the take-out menu the other day. But lo this was no to be either! For when handed the menu by the mysteriously blue-eyed asian waitress (henceforth mbew) it did not contain such an item. It seemed to lack numerous items that had previously caught this author's eye in the comfort of his home. Shattered, Psmith considered his options. He vigorously suppressed the powerful instinct to flee immediately like a frightened animal and desperately tried to pull himself together. Although he was a broken man on the inside, the mbew , having only seen his calm exterior, didn't know that and could perhaps unwittingly heal our damaged 'hound. Luckily the mbew was familiar with the author from multiple previous encounters and had decided she liked him. So when queried for her advice she answered both truthfully and with knowledge of what he had liked in the past. But mere guidance was not enough -- unable to handle the situation Psmith offered himself completely into the hands of the mbew and hoped for the best.
Soon a mango martini appeared at his table. But for the fact that the author is deathly allergic to mango, this gesture was appreciated and clearly demonstrated that the mbew knew what was up. Mentally noting the mad props she had just earned Psmith turned his dysfunctional mind to the greater problem. He couldn't consume it. It was here. And it was his fault. He considered falling on his own sword for the sake of propriety but dismissed the notion on the grounds that the magnanimity of the gesture would be outweighed by gracelessness of a patron going into anaphalactic shock on the premises during the dinner rush. In the end he saved the day for everyone by slyly draining the beverage into an unsuspecting potted plant.
Moments after his deft dispatch of the poison an appetizer was brought. It was Roll Sod, or 'fresh spring rolls' These were two sliced rice-paper rolls filled with chicken, basil, vermicelli, bean sprouts, and cucumber. They were very fresh and the chicken had an interesting curry flavor. Psmith began to recover his senses. He had never had fresh spring rolls containing curried chicken. This was interesting and he approved. Next came the main course which was Stuffed Omelet (country style). The dish consisted of very thinly cooked egg which almost resembled a large crepe. The egg was folded around a mixture of baby shrimp, sweet potato, peas, chicken, diced tomato, onion, and red pepper. On top of the omelet were tiny pieces of extra-yummy fried radish. This was definitely a 'country style' dish and Psmith imagined that Real Thai People probably eat something similar. Maybe in the 'country' ...... he conceded he had no idea but the dish definitely felt home-style. The fried radish on top was excellent accompaniment. It tasted a little like fried garlic shards but definitely unique as well. Psmith couldn't identify it on his own but the mbew again proved worth her salt.
When asked for his opinion on the Dessert Matter, the author politely declined and elected to merely sip his water for a few minutes while staring absently out the window pondering imponderables.
In the fullness of time, his tissues restored and emotional health largely repaired, Psmith thanked his unwitting tutelary deities, paid his bill, and strode confidently into the soft evening light.
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