So there I sat: in the car on my way to dinner. The car radio blared a country song that my Dad chose, as our car plowed through what seemed like a hurricane. We were going to some new restaurant called “Bonefish Grill”. I must admit, the name made me skeptical. I imagined a fish filled with bones which, personally, I don’t find appetizing at all.
As we pulled in the parking lot, the first thing that I noticed was a rather large fish skeleton statue perched on the façade. I hoped, with all my inner being, that this alleged high-end restaurant would meet my expectations, as my father cracked it up to be an eatery with chefs qualified to make your taste buds dance the Hora.
We sat in a booth near the window, menus in hand. As I examined mine, our waiter informed us of an unlisted topping, “Oscar,” for the Chilean Sea Bass with lemon-butter sauce and a variety of fresh veggies. Since I couldn’t manage to find anything else to tickle my fancy, I decided to try it.
This could have been one of the best decisions of my life. The expert display of veggies, lovely contradiction of flamboyance and modesty, and flavor, had my eyes and taste buds engaged in a Hora followed by a Tango.
If I had adequate funding, I would purchase a unicycle, ride it to Bonefish Grill and order Chilean Sea Bass “Oscar” every day for the rest of my life.
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