San Francisco, You Tease

San Francisco is a lonely place when you’re alone.

I like being alone because I can do what I want.
I dislike being alone because I’m lonely.

I walk around town, and I pass a hundred pretty faces, none of which I’ll ever speak to. It’s the loneliest feeling being surrounded by hundreds of people you’ll never say hi to. I could walk down Eddy just north of Market for some company, but getting raped by a drugged out woman isn’t as good as I had hoped, (see my last trip to SF; oh that’s right I didn’t blog about that!).

Why was I out of my hotel room anyway? That’s right, I was on my way to get some Indian food; an Indian place called Mehfil.

I didn’t make it. I got distracted by a neon sushi sign. Much like long legs in a short skirt, you can’t ignore Japanese. I hesitated for just one moment when I considered it was a place I had never been before, but the Indian place was another full block away. I caved into the Japanese; sorry Indian.

The place had no patrons in it; odd for 6:45 PM at night. I figured they’d all be streaming in soon. I ordered a chicken teriyaki bento box with California roll. It wasn’t until right after I handed over my Amex that I realized there was no kitchen. Kids, if you end up in a restaurant that doesn’t have a kitchen, it’s a sign that you should leave. I’m not quite sure what magical process he used to conjure up my meal, but it involved a lot of opening and closing drawers and using the microwave.

I asked for a drink, he offered me a Diet Coke. I asked him for a regular Coke, and he hesitated. Ok folks, I’m not that fat! I may be stocky, but I’m not huge. He reluctantly handed me a normal Coke. So here’s the deal. I’m going to get back onto my marathon training plan, and after I’ve lost 20 pounds I’m going to come back and call him a fatso.

I asked him how late he was open, he said 7:00 PM. Let’s see, no actual kitchen, just microwave meals, not open for dinner; OK I chose poorly. Not being one to judge a restaurant by its cover, I happily carried my meal back to my hotel.

The miso soup has spilled all over the inside of the bag and gotten the bottom of the bento box wet with yellowness. So, the next time you’re in a hotel room and the bed spread has an unpleasant stain on it, don’t think bodily fluids, think miso soup; because it happens people! Not my fault.

The food was pretty bad. The soy sauce was ok, but it came in a Kikoman packet so I’m pretty sure there was no way to screw that up.

I’m still drinking my coke.

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