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This week I watched insurance-mandated Work Safety Video #4 and final (yay!). About the time that the hapless phenol-spilling researcher got hustled under the safety shower and had his shirt stripped off him by his lab buddy, I realized that biology was the perfect setting for a really torrid Harlequin novel. Who cares if you've got second-degree chemical burns, you're forced by safety protocols to lose some layers! (Seriously. The sodden pants went the way of the shirt.)
This was not helped by the "how (not) to handle flammables" sequence. One of my coworkers invoked man-hugging as Lab Buddy helped Hapless Researcher smother the flames from Hapless's smoking lab coat, and possibly I snickered. Seriously: Harlequin tropes versus burns. No contest.
A "restaurant week" dinner and one drink was $60 including tip at Poste. Perky K. and I split: for appetizers, arugula salad with figs and vinaigrette, and deep-fried squash blossoms; halibut and bass entrees; chocolate pot de creme and blueberry shortcake for dessert. For drinks I got sangria and K. got something with lemon and basil. We also got an unexpected plate of mini-desserts: tiny, nutty almond meringues, slices of chocolate brownie, and gooseberry blossoms dipped in white chocolate. The food was excellent, and the drinks satisfying. I have to admit: I'm used to serve-yourself service. The attentiveness of the waiters, especially as we were sitting down and getting through the opening "hi how are you and here's your birthday present" pleasantries bordered on over-solicitousness. That and the inexplicably distant bathrooms - out to the hotel and up a floor - were the only flaws in an excellent dining experience. With that said, $60 is a lot of money for one meal. I might do restaurant week again next August, but I'm not doing anything like this before then.
And then we tried to walk off dinner and I wound up buying jeans. I justify this by wearing my jeans to destruction, patching them back into rotation, then wearing them until the patches rip.
This was not helped by the "how (not) to handle flammables" sequence. One of my coworkers invoked man-hugging as Lab Buddy helped Hapless Researcher smother the flames from Hapless's smoking lab coat, and possibly I snickered. Seriously: Harlequin tropes versus burns. No contest.
A "restaurant week" dinner and one drink was $60 including tip at Poste. Perky K. and I split: for appetizers, arugula salad with figs and vinaigrette, and deep-fried squash blossoms; halibut and bass entrees; chocolate pot de creme and blueberry shortcake for dessert. For drinks I got sangria and K. got something with lemon and basil. We also got an unexpected plate of mini-desserts: tiny, nutty almond meringues, slices of chocolate brownie, and gooseberry blossoms dipped in white chocolate. The food was excellent, and the drinks satisfying. I have to admit: I'm used to serve-yourself service. The attentiveness of the waiters, especially as we were sitting down and getting through the opening "hi how are you and here's your birthday present" pleasantries bordered on over-solicitousness. That and the inexplicably distant bathrooms - out to the hotel and up a floor - were the only flaws in an excellent dining experience. With that said, $60 is a lot of money for one meal. I might do restaurant week again next August, but I'm not doing anything like this before then.
And then we tried to walk off dinner and I wound up buying jeans. I justify this by wearing my jeans to destruction, patching them back into rotation, then wearing them until the patches rip.
