Five-fer tacos and waiterperson waffles at Reaction
CHEAP EATS What'd I say 50 weeks ago? "More fun in one-one," or something, and, well, I had it!
But I earned and deserved this, dear reader, after the shit show that was one-oh. This year, my Favorite Year Ever, started on a choo-choo across the country, and ended with a chocolate chip cookie. In between, I re-rocked Boston and took NOLA by storm (January), fell in love with the prickliest li'l softest-centered dyke that ever strapped on a strap-on (February), befriended yet another awesome little baby (March), was carried off a football field on some shoulders (April), turned forty-fucking-eight (May), restormed NOLA (June), co-chicken-farmed France (July), remembered how to write in Mexico (August), drove across the country (September) ... and so on and also forth — until that cookie I was trying to tell you about.
What was so special about this chocolate chip cookie, late December, 2011 (my Favorite Year Ever), was that it didn't have any chocolate chips in it.
I know, right?
What seemed like chocolate chips turned out to be raisins; except then what appeared to be raisins turned out to be dried cranberries. Only they weren't; they were dried cherries. Give or take the ones that weren't dried cherries either but chocolate covered pretzels — some of which, upon closer examination were butterscotch chips that were really white chocolate chips.
In other words, I don't know what the hell was in them, just that they were the magickest chocolate chip cookies I ever ate, and there's one left.
I'm in love with Hedgehog's best friend Jellybean over these cookies. The sweetie pie, she let us stay at her apartment while she was out of town, and left a little box of homemade cookies on the kitchen table. When I grow up, I would like to be that thoughtful.
Not to mention substitutive (shall we say) with my cookie ingredients. But so long as we're on the subject of chocolate chip cookies without chocolate chips in them, let me also direct your attention to a strange Mexican restaurant's turned up last year or so like a hole in the head of my very own neighborhood (that I won't be living in for another six months): the Mission.
I'm talking about Reaction, where once I ate with Hedgehog, Coach, and Papa before going out somewheres. The thing to remember about Reaction is: happy hour. Between 5 and 7 you can get five tacos for $5, or a free taco with your fancy-pants drink.
Hedgehog got that. Neverminding the drink, the papas taco came with it did not float her boat — although she admits to holding potato tacos to an unreasonably high standard set by Taqueria El Atacor #11 in Los Angeles.
Coach got something vegetarian, because that's the way she is, and both me and our center, Papa, being the other way inclined, got five-for-fives.
Strangely — since they open at five and we'd showed up at six — they were out of some of the things on the menu.
There was one waiter, and he had two tables. The rest of the restaurant was empty. Just us, sitting in the front window, quietly discussing relationships and pass blocking, and, in the back of the room, in the opposite corner, as far away from our party as it was possible to be, a table full of loud dudes, hooting and drinking and laughing.
Two more divergent groups would be possible to imagine, and — as it happened — imagination was not our waiterguyperson's weak suit. Anyway, he somehow kept confusing our order with theirs, bringing the wrong things to the wrong table, and whatnot.
For which I loved him, but ... I mean, even I have to admit: come on. The food at my new favorite restaurant was just OK. Super cheap, though. Thanks to the happiness of the hour, all four of us ate for under thirty, so ... hard to complain.
Happy New Year, m'dears.
You see? Our 49ers are going to the playoffs for the first time in 10 years! Woo-hoo for one-two.