Normally I like to cook. (Yeah, like that was hard for you to figure out…a chubby girl who knows her way around the kitchen. Shocking!) Most of the time, I enjoy getting my hands dirty in the kitchen and concocting something amazing for dinner.
Interestingly, I also get my shirt dirty…and the counters…and the cabinets…and the baseboards. I’m not a tidy chef. So perhaps it was my husband’s irritation at the messy kitchen that made him accept an invitation to No Menu Monday.
Whatever the reason, last night my kitchen stayed fairly clean (except for the dog hair on the floor and random pieces of dog food scattered about, compliments of Shady Jack).
My friend, The Funniest Man Alive (not his real name…but seriously, he’s hilarious), found a local restaurant that does “No Menu Mondays.” The concept is simple. You make a reservation, go in and fill out a questionnaire, and then the chef prepares a 3 course meal just for you.
We were on board with the idea, especially since the restaurant served liquor. Matt, The Funniest Man, Pajama Jeans and I made reservations for No Menu Monday and started salivating immediately.
We arrived and were greeted by our server, who was one holey cardigan away from a child molester. He smelled like moth balls and I’m pretty sure he had something creepy stashed in a rental locker somewhere.
You could tell he was a hipster but “management” wanted him to be more mainstream for the restaurant, so he wore a black button down shirt, but I could practically hear his inner monologue scolding us for binding ourselves together in marriage.
He detested us immediately. The feeling was mutual, as I noticed he was sporting crumbs from yesterday’s whole grain sandwich in his beard.
We looked at the questionnaire that was delicately placed in front of us. There were only a few questions on it, and I wasn’t sure how these few inquiries were going to tell the chef enough about me to make a full meal. Didn’t she need to know my sign? My political stance? Whether I’m Team Aniston or Team Jolie? (Team Aniston all the way.)
I decided to give her this information anyway, as I’m sure she was dying to know. And I know the chef was female because creepy waiter guy kept referring to “her” although he could have been saying that to be ironic. Fricking hipster.
The first question on the questionnaire was “Are you allergic to anything or have any dietary restraints?”
Naturally, I immediately advised I was allergic to cats…and grass…and trees…and anything outside. I figured she wouldn’t make me a concoction of cats and hay weed, but this place was ultra hip so I wanted to cover all my bases.
The next question said “If the chef were a magic genie, what would you wish her to make?”
Okay, first of all, if the chef was so magic, she probably would already know what to make me and wouldn’t have to ask. Strike one. And if the chef were a magic genie, would I get only one wish and that wish was for one meal?
That seems like a lame genie to me. I’d rather take a genie that has three wishes that aren’t limited to food. Of course, I’d make my wishes about food, but I wouldn’t want that restriction. Strike two.
Why am I giving strikes?
And seriously, this genie can’t be that magic if she actually has to make the food. Isn’t the point of magic to create something without having to do any work?
I refused to answer the question and simply responded with “goat cheese.”
The next question said “What makes you say yuck?” to which I answered “Anal.” It’s true, and I wanted the chef to know I was a classy gal (like she couldn’t already tell from the vodka stain on the paper and the wad of gum folded up in the corner of the page).
I realized she may have been wondering what kind of food made me say yuck, so I also wrote down “Duck” (mostly because it rhymed with yuck…and the vodka was really starting to kick in). I also jotted down “Grown men dressed as babies” because that shit is just creepy.
The next question said “When you cook at home, what do you make? (Is it any good?)”
Seriously?! This questionnaire is asking about my cooking skills? How is this relevant to what the chef will prepare? I suspected this was her elitist way of trying to make me feel bad for making mac and cheese from a box, coupled with hot dogs and applesauce.
Judge on sister. And for the record, it is delicious.
The last question was a real stumper. It said “When I say ‘belly’ you think: (a) the area below my chest and above my hips (b) no way! (c) yes, please”
Multiple choice? Really? This chef was just getting lazy with the questions. And was this a pot shot at my flabby belly? Not cool. I figured this question was a way for the chef to get rid of the extra belly fat she took off the meat, so I circled “No way” and then, just to make my point, I wrote “Don’t even think about it.” I considered following that up with “Beotch” but thought that might be a little harsh.
The rest of the table also answered the questions, although they were a bit more thorough than I was. We gave our cards to the creepy waiter, who took them to the chef in the back (and probably took a hit off a bong on the way).
Despite my random answers to the even more random questions, the three courses I got were delicious, although I suspected my dessert came from a pudding cup. Whatever. It was fantastic and I practically licked the plate.
The rest of my table enjoyed their meals as well, although Pajama Jeans was a bit annoyed that the chef paired all of her food with red wine. PJ doesn’t like red wine because she says all of it tastes like wood, but she sucked it up, risked the splinters, and downed every drop. Even she admitted the wine was great.
Overall, No Menu Monday was a success. It was fun and exciting and a little adventurous. My only complaint was that the portions weren’t as big as I would have liked, but that’s probably for the best. I initially asked creepy waiter if I could super size my items but he didn’t seem amused. We left the restaurant and walked to our cars, talking about how we will have to come back and do this again.
Matt and I drove away and headed home, but first we made a stop at White Castle. Hey, a girl’s gotta eat.