Thursday, January 10, 2008

T - 4 Days (+ 1 for Time Changes Caused by the International Dateline.)

Yesterday, as my mom and I drove to Boston, we stopped at an outlet shopping mall just off the highway to purchase some last minute entities that everyone must have for traveling. In my case, that included a pair of cords (women's pants make no sense, why would sizes 0-8 come with the same size inseam? 33 inches), brown, and one of these. Which made me feel like such a girl, I can't even tell you.

Once in Boston, Whitney decided to play hooky from work, and came over to play with Grandmamere and La Mama. We, and by we I mean them, snacked on stale cookies and picked out cheesecake slices for dessert. Jenna (of the Universal Sign of Ovaries Fame) and Randi came over for a visit and we went out to this Indian Restaurant that blew our minds. When we first called this Indian Restaurant for a reservation, Whitney asked them if they were located near Copley on Beacon. "Ye-ah" replied the Indian man on the other end of the line - as if anyone would, nay could, ask such a dumb question. So, into the car we all hopped with Whitney's TomTom leading the way (driving in Boston is only slightly more relaxing when John Cleese is giving you directions), we were off to dine anticipating some delicious paneer, masala, and let's not neglect the mango lassi!

20 minutes later, we arrive in Harvard Square, which to remind you is not near Beacon NOR Copley, but was the very same restaurant at which we had reservations. We park the car, and walk to the restaurant. The waiters all dressed in black and walking around the restaurant like a strange Indian Mafia ask us if we want a booth or a table. "Booth" say I, with a lot of confidence. They seat us in front of a table with two extremely loud people screaming and cackling over their own wit. The waiters give us our menus and leave. We look at the menus decide what were going to get and wait quietly like a naughty group of girls who sent to timeout in the corner. A waiter arrives and stands in front of our table staring at Whitney expectantly. He stares. And stares. And stares. Finally, Whitney takes action "I'll have a mango lassi and samosas to start please." Then he stares at me..."erhm, I'll have a mango lassi too please." More staring at Jenna and Randi "uh - water please." And he leaves.

The couple behind us is saying things like:
Boy (shoulder length black hair, tight skinny jeans): Urban Outfitters - which i hate, like on principle -is selling those, like, page boy caps that Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp always where, and I, like, totally want one.

Girl (annoying laugh): if you get one of those hats, we just can't be friends.

Boy: I used to wear fedoras.

Girl: yeah, I just can't see that.

A different waiter comes back and SPEAKS! "menus?" I look up at him, clutching my menu to my chest, "but we haven't ordered yet..." he turns on his heel and walks away.

Anyway, the food was good, the couple finally left and we could start catching up, talking, and overall just hearing ourselves think. The service only got worse; the waiters couldn't understand anything that we were saying.

Jenna: I'll have the Chicken Vindaloo...

Indian Mafia: Chicken Vin..what?

Jenna: Vindaloo (blank Indian Mafian glare)...Vindaloo...Vin-da-loo...Am i not saying this right?

Indian Mafia to me: Show me on the menu - ahh, Chicken Vindaloo...

Whitney: Chicken Tikka Masala

Indian Mafia: Chicken Tik......what?

Perhaps this is why we don't hear more about organized Indian crime.

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