Dinner at Trilogy

Last night, the husband and I went to Trilogy for my birthday dinner. I had heard wonderful things about it, and apparently it's one of Pittsburgh Magazine's top 25.

I had the Rack of Lamb, which was somewhat over-mustarded, but still quite good. The husband had the Jambalaya, which was deconstructed, which I guess the stark decor was supposed to suggest, since the menu did not. The fish was good as were the fingerling potatoes, but the shellfish seemed that they had been cooked and held, then reheated somehow; they were dry and nearly crumbly.

What is beginning to distress me is the lack of good elegant restaurants in Pittsburgh. There are plenty of good restaurants, but they are mostly casual. Enotria (behind Il Pizzaoli) is wonderful, as is Dish. But these aren't the best places for an elegant evening out. Where are those places?

Songs That Suck

This is not so much about songs that are, in their totality, pieces of crap, but how certain lyrics are a guarantee of a bad song.

My brother instantly hates songs with the words "rock and roll fantasy" or "rock and roll dream" in them.

My husband instantly hates songs with "leave all of this behind" in them (with the exception of "How can I leave this behind?" in Spinal Tap's Big Bottom).

I have a particular aversion to songs containing any lyrics that go:
"blah blah blah brain/Drive me insane".

Workin' for that tip

Last night the husband and I went out for dinner. We had a waiter named Richard, who went to great lengths to remind us of that fact each and every time he visited our table. I suspected it was some sort of brainwashing technique so that Richard could manipulate us for some nefarious purpose of his own. I considered that one method of breaking the spell would be to call him Dick loudly and quite often, but I didn't follow through.

He was one of those waiters who try to be jokey, but fail miserably (keep saying "I'm jes kiddin'". He also had an overly dramatic reading of the specials, laden with adjectives. The climax was his description of his favorite dish in which, and I quote, "every bite makes your mouth water", while he mimed the act of eating his seared tuna, eyes gleaming with ecstacy.

The best waiters have, for me, been the ones that have been nearly invisible, and gently helpful. Back in our college days, the husband and I would go to the cafe at the Carnegie Museum, adjacent to the Scaife Gallery. We had very little money, like all college students, but we would use what little we had to get their fabulous salad bar, where all dressings were homemade and you could fill up on carrot-raisin salad and pasta salad, all in an atmosphere of clean white porcelain and tablecloths.

Our waiter there knew that we were less than wealthy, but we tipped well, and he knew that this was a real treat for us. He would be sure to seat us away from crying children. He would never interrupt our conversation. He was, somewhat ironically, named Art and he still sets the waiter standard for us.