Middle Eastern Sunday Brunch. Multiple locations. No reservations. Cash only. Valet parking.
It gladdens my heart that thou art going to be my server today, Sarah, for thou art truly lovely. But Chef Himself hath always been my shepherd. I shall not want. Nor even free coffee refills.
You maketh me to wait on the velveteen bench in front of the hostess stand until all my party has arrived before you seateth me. You maketh sure I order green vegetables even if I cannot abide Brussels sprouts. You bringeth me a choice of still or sparkling waters. Badoit if you have it. Otherwise Evian will be fine.
The first Bloody Mary of the day restoreth my soul, even though it be technically blasphemous. Chef leadeth me through the list of specials for His name’s sake. (Not sake, the Japanese rice wine, that’s different.)
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of debt (debit cards, actually, with a PIN and a chip, though not a potato chip), I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. And Art, the barman, too.
Thy cod (marinated in sake lees) and thy staff (Art, of course, but especially Sarah), they comfort me.
Thou preparest a farm-to-table table for me in the presence of mine guests at 7:30 on a Friday night. When thou sendeth out a round of complimentary appetizers, my cup of happiness runneth over.
Surely flatulence and Percy shall follow me at least as far as the sidewalk, where my surge-priced Uber will be waiting, unless I want to dwell at the valet stand forever.
For thine is the pepper and the garlic, now and forever, Amex. Sorry, I mean to say Amen. But you do take Amex, right?