Tuesday, April 27. Pushed Out At The Bon Ton. This Saturday is acceptance day for the country's universities, when next year's freshmen have to give their final decision as to where they plan to study. Mary Leigh hasn't even applied for a college that she will accept, having now rejected two of them. She huddled with her counselor, who has some connections at Tulane. ML sent in her application in today, and is crossing her fingers that she will be a Greenie.
I was supposed to have dinner with one of the posters on the web messageboard, an older guy (according to his own description) who calls himself "aboy." He has, on numerous occasions, said that he doesn't like the Bon Ton. I don't think the Bon Ton is a spectacular restaurant--it is decades overdue for some menu and recipe renovations--but in its specialties it's hard to beat. I know of no better crabmeat au gratin. The fish with crabmeat, the oyster pan roast, and the combination shrimp and crawfish etouffee are all the best of their kind. I was looking forward tonight to having the four-way crawfish dinner, since mudbugs are in season now.
I screwed up. The mental note I made to call for a reservation during the radio show didn't stick to my oily forehead. I didn't worry too much about it, since whenever I go to the Bon Ton for dinner I get right in. But not tonight. In addition to the Jazz Festival crowd, there's a medical meeting in town. It was big enough to create an hour-long wait for a table. Aboy--real name Arthur--was waiting for me outside. That was the only place to wait, so many others were waiting. I was already late. Two commercials that start tomorrow morning had to be done before I could leave. On top of all that, I was feeling a little queasy. I begged him to let us reschedule this, so I could get home before eleven.
He graciously went along with that plan, and even offered to drive me the one block to the station's parking garage. He gave me a container of his wife's crawfish bisque, too. I went home without much hunger. I made a little sandwich at home to keep me from having dreams about starving to death on a raft in the Gulf of Mexico, surrounded by the oil slick that suddenly seems like a greater problem than anyone thought it would be a few days ago. I completely forgot about the crawfish bisque, sitting in my trunk in an insulated bag with some gelpacks.
