Okay, I like to eat as much as the next person, but what’s with the restaurant portions these days? I feel like I’m living in Flintstone land. Remember when Fred would order ribs that could pull over his car?
My husband and I recently went out to eat. He was late, and I ordered an appetizer. We don’t normally do that, and I thought it might be fun. Before the server brought out the appetizer, though, she took our meal orders.
When our plate of nachos finally arrived, it was big enough to take over our table. I may never be able to eat nachos again. For the rest—of—my—life. Okay, maybe no one said I had to eat all of them, but well, they were there, and I was hungry . . . .
So by the time they brought out my salad, which could have served a small wedding reception, I had to ask for a box. That’s right. Didn’t eat a bite of my salad (which would have been much better for me than the nachos, by the way).
I suppose they bring enough food to feed a country to justify the hefty prices, but it’s getting ridiculous. And then there are always those restaurants that give you a different plate for everything you order. Once my husband and I ended up with 15 dishes at a table for two. I pulled up more chairs so we looked like a party of six—with four people on a potty break.
The time has come to order one meal and split it. Now if only I could get him interested in chocolate cake as a main course . . . .