The Flying Meatball Incident

On Monday night, after a lovely Memorial Day party* chez Mr. & Mrs. C and baby Pez, Astrid and I biked home through the Mission and decided to get dinner at Emmy's Spaghetti Shack. Neither of us had ever been before, and it was totally worth the hype. It's not the most extraordinary food you'll ever eat, but they serve really tasty, fresh grub, inventive drinks, and the space itself is really cozy. You've gotta get there super early to get a table, though. We'd tried before, and the line was out the wazoo. Anyway, Astrid got the pea soup with mint (deelish), a lavender martini, and a salad with arugula and speck (which neither of us had ever heard of, but A. wisely surmised the German origin of the name of this lovely, smokey cured meat). I got the spaghetti and meatballs, 'cause I'd heard their meatballs rock. And it turns out they are mighty nice, indeed, packed with lots of fresh chopped onions and garlic, and the spaghetti comes topped with a rich, tangy marinara sauce and lots of freshly grated Parmesan and minced parsley.

As I'm trying to be more mindful these days of how much food I shove down the gullet, I had a decent amount of leftovers, which the hipster waitress kindly packed for me in a Chinese take-out box. We wrapped the bill and departed, making our way through the crowd and out to our bikes. Before unlocking, I realized I'd left the leftovers on the table, and went back in to fetch them. The hipster waitress said, "It happens all the time," as she wiped the box off, having retrieved it for me from the garbage. I figured that if I get E.coli, it's my own damned fault. I put the box in my bike basket and we set off for home.

Not two blocks away from the restaurant, Astrid and I made a left off of Mission, and I hit a pothole. The take-out box went flying, and as I looked behind me out the corner of my eye, I saw the leftover meatball pop out of the carton, arch through the air, and bounce onto the pavement. Guess I didn't need the extra calories or potential E.coli infection.

xo
Bree


*B and I were expecting a Memorial Day Barbeque, not just a "party" featuring tamales and seven-layer bean dip. Not that the tamales and dip and mojitos weren't excellent, but, y'know, where's the *beef*? Oh yeah, it flew off my bike.