If I had a nickel for every time ...

Not this Sunday past, but the Sunday before that, Mr. and Mrs. The Buffalo went out on what could be called a date. We're married, so I don't know if that technically qualifies, but who cares? It was a nice night and we decided to celebrate our good fortunes by settling into one of our favorite eateries, The Chimes. This is a restaurant that has a larger drink list than menu, so I especially enjoy any chance to partake. Another one of the wonderful reasons for frequenting this joint is the Blackened Alligator (no Louisiana jokes!). It really is quite tasty and compliments just about any beer they have on tap (except that Belgian bubbly shit). Anyway, this particular day had been kind of rough for me. Work didn't exactly pan out the way it was supposed to and the whole new job thing isn't exactly panning out either. Consequently, nothing looked good on the menu to me. So, just in the interest of eating something to comfort me, I decided on a dozen oysters on the half shell. For those who don't know, I am (was) a huge fan of those nasty little filters of the gulf. And yeah, I know what they do and what could happen if I eat a glowing green one.

Nonethless, before embarking on this uncooked journey, and because I had never had oysters at The Chimes before, I asked our waitress if the oysters were in season, and if so, how they were. She told me that no one had complained and that they had been serving them every night recently. So, with that vote of confidence, my order sped away to the kitchen, along with some alligator appetizers.

About half an hour later my tray arrived, complete with horseraddish and lemon wedges, and of course, exactly twelve slimy little jems of the pond, smiling happily back at me from their pearly white shells. Not four oysters down, I rip up something beneath one of them that looked to be a strip of fleshy matter. This didn't bother me - oysters often leave a little of their "meat" behind on the shell because sometimes they aren't properly detached when shucked. But upon closer inspection, the fleshy strip seemed to have many, many tiny little legs ... and a head ... and it was - wait for it - MOVING!. Oh yes, it was a worm of some sort, occupying my once wonderful but now ominous entree.


It took a while for our waitress to return to the table, but when she did, I sheepishly told her that I was sorry, but I would have to be her first complaint about the oysters. She looked at me stupefied for a moment, so I elaborated about the moving creature writhing in my plate. Her reaction is why I will never return to The Chimes EVER AGAIN! She calmly told me that, "Oh yeah, we know they have worms. Most times, people just don't notice 'em."

At this point I think my eyes must ave widened to dinner-plate size because she simply asked me if I would like to have the order taken off my bill before quickly running away with the platter and the critter. She didn't even ask if I wanted anything else, perhaps a bottle of everclear to down in the hopes of sterilizing my innards and killing what surely must be a few worms that I missed before discovering their granddaddy! For the rest of the night, our waitress avoided our table until I had to flag her down to get our check. Afterwards, I tipped her, more than she deserved (I'm a lawyer, not a dick), then calmly explained the circumstances of our meal to the attending hostess. At least she seemed startled at what had transpired.

And here comes the best part. Not two days after this wonderful repast, I came down with some kind of bacterial infection that has had me bed-ridden until yesterday. Now, I can't prove it was the worms from The Chimes, and even if I could - what good would that do? But if I can at least let one or two people know about this wonderful event, and perhaps sway your palatte from regions Chimes-ish that would be enough for me. So, if you are ever in the Baton Rouge area, please don't bother going there. If you do, don't eat there. I mean come on, if they allow their staff to serve bad oysters, which require no preparation, no cooking, and very little contact with actual people from the time they are opened to the time they show up on my table, to people knowingly, just image what your gumbo or etouffe has in it. And lest we forget - I asked this girl if the damn slime-balls were okay! And she said they were, only to later admit that she knew damn well they weren't.

That said, no more oysters for me. One sonic bout with pneumonia or some similar streptococc-er whatever is enough to make me a believer.


On a lighter note, my job is terrible! The firm that I am working for has three attorneys in it, counting myself. My boss is basically an absentee landlord offering no mentorship, no guidance, no benefits, and plenty of requests I have no idea how to fulfill. The other attorney often asks me to help him with work he is doing and I am more than happy to comply. Unfortunately, when the boss does return to the office to find me working on anything but what he has given me to do - well ... the rage is indescribable, not for me, but for the other attorney, which then affects me, naturally. Last week, while I was convalescing at home, I was notified that the other attorney in the office gave my boss an ultimatum - either let me run the office the way I see fit, or I walk - and so there it is. Neither have spoken since and I haven't had any of my calls returned either...

Anyone know somebody who needs a hardworking attorney (please, no psychos this time around)?