So, a coupla weeks ago, our babysitter offered to watch the spawnage for this past Friday night and, back then, it sounded like a grand fucking idea. Cut to Friday, and the Old Lady was feeling like carp 'cuz of some plague she caught and, of course, I was knee-deep in whatever the fuck I have... the grippe or the consumption or boola-boola, but fuck, we're not gonna turn away a babysitter, right? We were going to go out to dinner and then see a movie, but we felt so shitty we just decided to do the dinner. Besides, the only movie that was around was "Charlie Wilson's War," and frankly, I wasn't quite in the mood for some fucking political potboiler, ya know? Enough with the political potboilers, already. Holy fuck.
So we drive on over to this place in a goddamn strip-mall, like every fucking restaurant in this miserable anus of a town, and shuffled our pathetic asses in. The place is called "Four Seasons Bistro," and if I were to judge it solely on its looks, I'd say the "four seasons" were salt, pepper, Lowry's Seasoning salt and Velveeta. It had potential, mind you -- a nod to some sort of half-assed Frank Lloyd Wrightian interior, but the tables had vinyl tablecloths and the air smelled like a cross between Clorox and cigar-farts. Which, for East Lansing, is the sign of a fine-dining establishment.
Anywhich, the meal was pretty good. I ordered the special sea bass which, judging by the size of my portion, was the runt of its litter. It tasted good, though, in all its punyness. It would've been a perfect portion, had I been Billy Barty. The Old Lady had some salmon that, while dry, wasn't shitty, so she gave it a thumbs kinda up. We both had a drinky-poo, which pretty much knocked us on our sickly asses, and then we shared an apple crisp that, if by "crisp" they meant "not crisp at all but totally fucking rubbery yet strangely pleasing," well, then,yes, it was an apple crisp.
Then we went home. Yay... we're old.
EDIT: I forgot to mention my favorite part of the restaurant. We were at a corner table, and I was sitting on the vinyl booth-type bench while the Old Lady had a chair. The 'great' thing about the bench is that it was pitched forward in such a way that my pants were constantly yanked taut against my giblets, so, basically, it was as if my Balzac were being stretched on a goddamn rack. The thing was pulled so tight you could pretty much read the menu through it. Which I did... just for fun. We got home extra quick after dinner 'cuz I was able to use said Balzac as a spinnaker for the car.
Just thought I'd share.