Have I mentioned recently that I'd gladly trade my ball-sack to move to Ann Arbor? Well, I would. Any takers? Like-new condition... original owner... lightly scuffed?
The Old Lady and I left the spawnage with a baby-sitter and high-tailed it to the "city with all the excellent shit that our city doesn't have" last night for dinner. Holy dungballs, what a great town. We got there around 8:00 and the whole downtown was hustling and/or a-bustling. People supping outside, open-air bars with attractive young-folk milling about, smelly hippies playing stupid songs, poorly, on shitty guitars. 'Twas to be a magical eve'n, indeed.
We went to a restaurant called "Logan," right off Main street, and they had a few tables set up on the sidewalk, so we decided to eat outside, or as the French call it, dining "al molinaro." I knew it was going to be a special evening when a bird flew by and shit on the Old Lady's head. I told her to make a wish, 'cuz that's good luck (somewhere), and apparently she wished for a fucking awesome meal, 'cuz that's what we got.
And I'm not just talking "Michigan-awesome" -- this meal was tits, even by Chicago standards. They even had a real-live sommelier who, after telling us the history of the Chianti region in Italy (in real time), helped us find a very tasty bottle of 2001 Fontalloro, which we proceeded to fucking inhale.
Now I don't feel like typing out the whole fucking night, so here's a recap of our delectables:
Appetizer -- A gruyere custard with a tomato/onion sofritto that was so rich and tasty, it was as if a cow teat had just fucking exploded in our mouths. It was cus-turd-tastic.
Salads -- I had a mixed green number that was fine, but the Old Lady had a fennel salad with balsamic that was fenneltastic.
Entrees -- I had monkfish that, had it not been dead and de-headed, would have really enjoyed swimming in a crunchy, tomato-y ratatouille. In fact, I'm pretty sure the monkfish would've given up its vow of celibacy to actually fuck the ratatouille -- it was that good.
The Old Lady had the special, which was gnocchi with black truffles, and it was rich and gooey and creamy -- basically, it was like having God shoot his load in your mouth. But in a good way.
And the desserts didn't disappoint, either. The old lady had a chocolate truffle with a birthday candle in it -- apparently our waiter, Larry, had overheard me mention that it was her birthday -- nice touch, Larr. That, my friend, solidified your 10% tip! I had the six, count-'em, six home-baked cookies (baked to order, no less) -- 2 chocolate chip, 2 peanut butter and 2 fucking snickerdoodles. With a bowl of ho'-made banilla ice cream. It was totally worth the ass-splosion that awaited me at home.
Just a stellar meal. Hell, I'm pretty sure even the birdshit that hit the Old Lady was in a heavy cream-reduction sauce. Logan restaurant, Ann Arbor. Go there. It rocks.
After dinner we walked around the town, pretending we lived there and trying not to shit our pants from the 8 or so sticks of butter we had probably consumed in our meals. Then, when we finally convinced ourselves that we were no longer drunk from the bottle of wine we had chugged just moments earlier, we drove back home.
And, if you'll remember, the meal was also a birthday present for the Old Lady, so I pretty much batted a thousand this year, gift-wise. We made a vow to try to go back to Ann Arbor once a month for dinner. It probably won't happen, but the promise of it definitely keeps me from completely giving in to my Okemos-induced downward-spiral of depression.
There's no place like Ann Arbor... there's no place like Ann Arbor...