*blue balls not included.
My own (well, not mine, sadly, so much as Cleveland’s) Michael Symon has turned 40.
Perfect Execution.
I You should stalk him on Facebook.
Don't make me put you in my oven!
Where was I… I’ve been in love with his food (natch, restaurants) since ‘nam. My best Lola memory — old location, Lola; current location, Lolita: celebrating a friend’s birthday, we reserved the super-cool circle booth for her big bash. That night a CAR crashed into the restaurant (I hear that this happened more than once… true story?). We had to enter the restaurant through some back door and walk through the kitchen in order to be seated.
Hilariously (I suppose), throughout the meal, the “workers” were working on variety of repairs of the restaurant front, merely separated from the patrons by a sheath of plastic. Mr. Symon (and his wonderful staff) offered up a variety of delicious desserts for our “inconvenience” (read: noise) while dining. This is also the night that I ate his sweetbreads with veal hash (sounds very Silence of the Lambs, no?). *slurp, slurp, slurp* YUM!
Oh, Good Food Lord, I am salivating for a Symon Burger.
As Frosty the Snowman says, “Happy Birthday.”
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This blog is about pursuit: a transplanted Clevelander (me) in a new city (that's you, Pittsburgh!), pursuing the role of a self-employed copywriter, becoming a roller derby badass and somehow merging all my to-do items into one ever-growing Bucket List.
And of MY boyfriend. His blue balls started this mess.
