Service: * * *1\/2
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Food: * * *1\/2
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Ambience: * * *1\/2
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Babe Count: * * * *<\/i><\/p>\n
My superb friend Erich Viedge is having supper with me. I opt for the Giselle, my new de-facto standard against which I measure all Cajun chicken salads. He’s having a sandwich. To drink… for me, an Oran Soda, imported from Italy. For Erich, a Chinotto, imported from Italy. For some reason, this salad isn’t as good as the one I had in the Norwood branch of Europa. It’s good, but not splendid. <\/p>\n
Robyn, our waitress, is going to be seriously dazzling when she improves her general knowledge. She doesn’t seem to be able to answer even a simple question. <\/p>\n
“Erich wants to meet a woman and have babies with her,” I offer as preamble to the question. I ask her, “Do you want babies?” <\/p>\n
“Ooooooh!” she says, squirming her shoulders, which seem attached to her bra straps, since her breasts kinda rise and fall with the movement, “you guys are making me blush!” <\/p>\n
Erich and I are talking about how to make some serious money. We’re looking at the next phase in the life of Barefoot Press, the publishing house I founded and own. No details are available as yet, since our conversations are confidential. But I’ll say this: a chateau in France is NOT out of the question in five years time. <\/p>\n