Guess everyone has an off day.

ST3 and I were fortunate enough to have a chance to get some dinner in Boston the other night, and being foodies and used to a fairly regular routine, it was exciting to go somewhere different. I made the restaurant choice based on a recent review I had read, naming the restaurant one of Boston's best in 2011. The chef has always been one of my favorites, and her cookbook has been on my cook shelf for many years. Needless to say, we were quite excited and looking forward to an excellent meal as we perused the menu for several minutes, chasing the server away about four times because we hadn't made our choices yet. Finally, we decided on the burrata appetizer (me) and grilled clams (her.) We sipped glasses of tasty wine and chatted while we waited, enjoying the atmosphere and anticipation. When our dishes finally arrived, we ooh-ed and ahh-ed and dug right in. My taste buds were immediately bombarded with so much vinegar, my right eye slammed shut (serious over-acid reaction.) With my remaining eye, I looked over and saw ST3's nose crinkle as she stopped chewing completely. Something was very wrong, indeed. Our appetizers were underwhelming, to say the least.

Our second, and final course came out next, steaming bowls of pasta (I abandoned my Primal plan for this evening) ST3's with orecchietti, sausage and greens, mine with lobster and bucatini pasta.  Oops. Red sauce. Name one thing the Queen won't eat. Red sauce. This was seriously not going according to plan. Fortunately for me, or so I thought, ST3 very graciously traded dinners with me, and I excitedly bit into a little ear-shaped pasta and waited for the ecstasy. It resisted unpleasantly and stuck to my tooth. Really? Within seconds, I summoned our server and told her my pasta was extremely undercooked, and she whisked it off to be redone. The maitre'd trotted over to apologize and tell me my wait would be brief.  Now, for all my food snobbery and big talk, I rarely send food back. If it isn't to my liking and I was paying attention to the preparation listed in the menu, or to my server, then it's on me for choosing something I would not like. But, if it's not prepared properly, that's a whole other story.  And this pasta was not just undercooked, it was raw. There was a bright white strip of uncooked semolina in the noodle when I cut it open, which is not acceptable. When my new plate arrived, the maitre'd skittered over again, to be sure it was to my liking. He opened with, "I see you have your fresh plate." I smiled in agreement, fork poised to pounce. He stood there. As my fork descended, I was interrupted with, "Well, you know......" And I did. I did know what was coming next. I held my breath and silently counted to ten as this gentleman proceeded to tell me that "our handmade pasta may not be as cooked as you are used to and blah blah blah...." I put my fork down. ST3 cringed a little.

Me: "Did you taste my dish?"
M'd: "No."
Me: "Well, you should have. It wasn't undercooked. It was raw."
ST3: "She's a chef! She knows!" (I wasn't going there- she had my back tho... pretty cool.)

M'd just kind of stood there, so I took a bite of my new dish and said, "It's perfect." And it was- best dish of the whole night. So good, ST3 and I shared it, since the lobster dish was only ok, and mine was phenomenal, and actually ST3's original dinner. We declined dessert, since we thought the odds might be against us at this point. But we chatted and discussed the meal, and had a few laughs while we waited for the check.

But there's more... I'll get to that tomorrow- you must need a potty break by now anyway.