Coffeehouse Chronicles …and Have You Met Panda?

Happy Sunday Chroniclers!

I’ll bet all of you are primed up to hear about how the Professor absolutely destroyed some rental chairs, aren’t ya? I know. I know, but some other stuff happened, so we’ll have to get to that later.

If you’ve been paying attention, we have a few new co-stars: We have Dot (nobody can call her that except me) and her girl Jackie, nickname to be determined at a later date. Jackie has been keeping a very low profile. I have a feeling that Dot has warned her not to do anything when I come around. It’s like a surreal game of Freeze Tag when I see her. All of a sudden, Jackie becomes a statue.

Hmmmm. That’s odd.

We’ve already met the Capt and Tenille, but then there’s the church crew. Mo & Winnie, I’m still working on some nicks for them. Mo is always complaining that Winnie has his wallet. Lemme tell you something: Don't sleep on Mo. He is quite the snazzy shopper, too. He cries poverty because Winnie likes her designer swag. But if you check Mo out, you’ll quickly notice that he’s no slacker when it comes to high fashion. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s been wearing some name-brand satin shirts, deftly unbuttoned to show off his signature Mr. T starter kit gold chains and the three chest hairs that he combs Grecian formula into daily to disguise the grey, and a rotation of Sergio Valente jeans. Remember those? Yes, well Mo is positive that they’re back, or that he’s single-handedly leading the charge anyway. Look, he’s not kidding anyone; he likes to shop just as much as Winnie does.

And there's Panda and Teddi, formerly known as Teddi From the Block and henceforth to be known as Sebenteen (that’s 17 with a “b”). Sebenteen is Winnie’s shopping buddy and they are attached at the hip. If you see Winnie, there’s little doubt that Sebenteen is close by and vice versa, if you see Sebenteen, I’m sure that Winnie can be found nearby. 

The Cmdr. has been regaling me with stories about how Panda is a foodie. He's had me so built up on Panda that I have come to expect him to be like a notorious NY Times food critic. McCroc has told me time and again that wherever they go, Panda will find a place of fine cuisine and delights me with tales of how they’ve eaten like kings when they're with Panda.

Fast-forward to yesterday afternoon. Panda handed Mrs. Scubbles his phone, showing where he was suggesting dinner for the evening. A hush fell over the group, and I must admit I was getting pretty excited.

Mrs. Scubbles showed it to the HB, “You wanna go out to eat with us?”

The HB looked at me, and although I’m thinking in my head that, “Yeah, I wanna go,” because based on all the stories I’ve heard from McCroc, Panda is like a magician when it comes to food places, and I wanna see some of this magic I've heard so much about! But I’m careful to keep my excitement hidden, because sometimes the HB likes to squash my dreams like a bug. She looked at me and could see nothing but dead eyes and no hint of anticipation, so it was all good.

“Sure.”

On the inside, I’m doing cartwheels. Outside, I have to appear completely dispassionate because I know the HB is closely watching me from the corner of her eye, just to make sure that I was not enjoying this too much.

I heard Panda make a reservation for fourteen at seven-thirty.

We’re in! 

The afternoon seemed to be dragging by. The anticipation was killing me! When is it gonna be 7:30 already? I was like a kid on Christmas morning, waiting to run downstairs to see if I got the shiny new Schwinn that I’d asked the fat dude in the red suit for! 

Finally, it was time to head to the restaurant. We waited outside for twenty minutes because we had to wait for the Professor to show up. Ugh. He always has to make an entrance. He’s such a diva! I can’t wait to tell you about those chairs that he crushed. 

We’re at a fish house, but I take particular joy in the fact that I’m getting a ribeye. I'm more of a steak and potatoes guy.

My seat was across from the Right Reverend Doctor and he ordered the seafood pasta — with a twist…no pasta. He wants it on a bed of spinach. 

Andres, our waiter looked at me. I looked back at him, my inner voice was screaming out, “Hey bro, don't look at me. I don't get it, I would want the pasta. I like pasta. Just bring me a ribeye, and don’t be mad at me because my friend wants to eat healthy.”

“No worries, sir,” our waiter told the the Right Rev, “I will have the kitchen make you a VIP salad.

But the Right Rev didn’t want a salad, he wanted seafood pasta — minus the pasta, add spinach.

“No problem,” the waiter replied in a very thick Mexican accent and very proud of himself. “We’ll make you a VIP salad.”

The First Lady and the Right Rev looked at one another, confused. This went back and forth several times. “But, I don’t want salad.”

“I’ll have them make you a VIP salad, no?” 

“No. I don't want salad. I want something cooked. How about seafood pasta, but no pasta, spinach okay?”

Our waiter tried a different tack, “You want a VIP salad, yes?”

I think the Right Rev was just too tired and too hungry to fight anymore. He relented, and Andres, our waiter, satisfied, moved on to the next patron in our group. The Right Rev, the First Lady, and I all exchanged confused glances. Was the Right Rev gonna get something cooked? Or a cold salad that he didn’t want? I, for one, couldn’t wait to see.

Everyone put their order in, except Mrs. Scubbles and the Cmdr. The waiter somehow totally missed them. The soups and salads started hitting the table, and Mrs. Scrubbles looked confused. 

“What’s wrong? The First Lady inquired.

“We didn’t order,” Mrs. Scrubbles’ voice trailed off in confusion.

Strike one, Panda.

They get it all straightened out, and the Cmdr and Mrs. Scrubbles get to put in their order. 

The food starts hitting the table. The Right Rev gets a salad. Not what he ordered. And I get — NOT a ribeye. I have no idea what cut it was, but it was definitely NOT a ribeye. I suspect it was Salisbury. 

Strike two, Panda.

The “steak” was palatable, and we went on. Some even ordered a dessert. Seventeen ordered the tiramisu, and the Cmdr was gifted carrot cake for the earlier mix up with their order (or the delay in taking it, anyway). I looked at that cake and could tell that it looked incredibly dense and not to the level of moisture that I have become spoiled by. Have I ever mentioned that Cmdr McCroc is one heck of a cake maker? Any cake that he baked would in no way compare.

The Cmdr offered for Panda to try it, and I was literally on the edge of my seat, waiting to hear the foodie’s opinion on this cake.

“Not bad.”

Strike three, Panda.

“Wait…what?” I protested.

That’s when Sebenteen turned to me and said, “Oh, he’ll eat anything.”

I was flabbergasted, “You mean like Mikey in the Life cereal commercials?”

“Yep. Nothing goes to waste in our house. Leftovers are gone in the morning.”

You have your very own raccoon! …and that’s why he’s Panda. Our very own Trash Panda. Panda for short. Sorry D. We don’t pick our nicks, they pick us.

Who’s ready for some more razmatazz?

Drink ‘em if you got ‘em!

#coffeehousechronicles