In any relationship, there comes a time when one half of a couple is victimized for a few low-down, embarrassing, horrific, pitiful, flat-out disgusting days. You just want to die. Some people call it the flu. I call it The Exorcist Returns.
The mate shows much by his/her reaction. My new boyfriend Matlock decided to tame my stomach nightmare with some Jewish penicillin. (You gentiles probably refer to it as matzo ball soup or "that chicken broth with the big, spongy balls floating around inside.")
At Epicure, he picked up a bag brimming with a jar of the soup, some noodle pudding, a fresh orange, and two cans of diet Dr. Brown's Cream Soda. Also, just for good measure, there were a dozen white roses. Unfortunately all I could handle at the time was a bowl of the soup and a half can of soda.
Honestly I only hit Epicure once when I lived on Miami Beach because I remember nearly having a seizure when I saw how much damage one short trip to that place could do to a starving journalist's paycheck. But one thing I couldn't complain about was the taste of every single morsel I bought. Can't fault the place for adhering to the axiom "you get what you pay for."
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SHOW ME HOW
Considering all I had in my house were containers of sopa de pollo and white rice, black beans, and fried plantains I had picked up a few days prior from Las Vegas Cuban Cuisine, a cure that spoke directly to my roots was welcomed.
Hip Factor: N/A