Fred Flintstone would like Daniel's Broiler (Bellevue Place, Seattle).
Pterodactyl Steak. Rack o' Brontosaurus. T-Rex Ribs. Size of Australia Lobster Tails. And do save room for the 10,000 calorie gut-busting Chocolate Volcano.
It was the waiter, Adrian, who started it. "Tonight's special is corn fed Iowan beef prime rib. We call it the Flintstone Cut."
Laughter ensued. "Heh, heh. He said Flintstone cut. Funny, huh?"
I opted for the small 9 oz filet mignon since I'm watching my weight. Well, I'm watching my weight go up but I figure "watching it" is the first of a twelve step program. But my colleague, Dave, went for the Flintstone. Love that corn fed beef, he said, can't get enough.
The evening started well with a nice cocktail, fresh seafood appetizer of oysters on the half shell, shrimp and crab, fresh baked bread and sparkling conversation as only a table of computer specialists can produce.
"Yeah, but if you route the IP framastat through a wombat switch you can get one-point-one times the throughput, and, yeah, the wombat switch will bite you in the ass a few times but for point-one improvement it's worth the skin graft." Stuff like that. Waiters would hold their breath before entering our private room then leave quickly before they started bleeding from the ears.
I should have known from the grunting and groaning that the Flintstone Cut was arriving, but I was taken by surprise when the Haunch o' Hadrasaur was ratcheted down in front of Dave.
Even for a person raised in a society of conspicuous consumption I was taken aback. On a very large plate sat a very large piece of meat. It had to weigh in at four pounds if an ounce. Huge. My 9-oz filet by comparison looked like a button mushroom. Dave looked at my dinner and scoffed, "You gonna eat all that?" My thought, bitten back, was "You gonna live through dinner?"
It got worse.
Adrian appeared again with three Australian lobster tails in tow. Who ordered pillows, I thought. Soon my petite filet was covered in lobster.
It got worse.
Asparagus, mushrooms, broccoli, thrice cooked garlic potatoes, peas, carrots, some kind of fried thing (who knows?)...it kept coming and coming. My Mother's voice haunted me: "It's not polite to leave food on your plate." But, I was at the breaking point. I had long abandoned the notion of watching my weight. Now, I was just trying to survive. Each dish was more exquisite than the previous one. It would be a crime to waste the chef's talent.
Conversation gave way to the gnashing of teeth and devouring of the Flintstone Cut. Finally, the frenzy subsided and Dave was the first to speak. "I don't think I'll eat another thing for a month. I'm afraid to breathe lest I pop."
At that moment Adrian waltzed in and chimed, "Who's for dessert?"
Most of us were too stuffed to reply. Finally, Dave spoke up.
"I think I'll have the 10,000 calorie gut-busting Chocolate Volcano. And a decaf coffee. Black. I'm watching my weight."
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4 comments:
I hear you on that one. It's so hard to watch your weight on the road. THE PORTIONS! They're huge! I'm usually full by the salad, but I keep going because I know better things are to come. Sigh...
Yep. You found a good one. But Bellevue Place is square in Bellevue (I was born in Seattle, raised with a Bellevue address, thank you very much).
I feel like kicking myself, and I hope this gets to you in time. (Oh why didn't I think of this sooner?) You need to get out to Dixie's BBQ. You may have gone, but I doubt it. You would have blogged about it two or three times by now.
Anyway, it's a favorite lunch destination with the Miscrosoft crowd, and it's open every day but Sunday. Go to the original in northern Bellevue (where it bleeds toward Redmond and Kirkland). I'd give you the address, but all I have is my bumper sticker right now. In any case...
If you get to Northup Way, just east of where the 405 crosses over it, you'll find a little BBQ shack that once was a brake service shop owned by a man named Gene. His wife is named Dixie.
Visit. Meet "The Man," if you dare, though that only happens when Gene—a large black man from Louisiana—is walking around saying, "Yeaaaah, Baby! You met The Man yet? Ope, you bettah trah it onna toothpick firs!" I'm sure his style is as much affectation anymore as upbringing, but the food is incredible.
I recommend the 520 Special with a side of corn bread (whole kernels!). If you have Gene put The Man on your sandwich, be ready with two rounds of honey in the cornbread. The Man is a straight jabenero sauce.
Sorry that my comment ran as long as your post.
Wow.
Man, I gotta get my wife and I for a trip up to the Emerald City. Every trip I take there is based around WHERE TO EAT.
Alas, Denver - in the 16 years I've been here - finally has some pretty good eating establishments, but still nothing like Seattle (or Belleview to be specific in this situation :)
Thanks for the account. I'll make note of it for the future. gald you survived!
I'm currently sitting at my desk, which is about an hour and a half south of Seattle. Just as I read the post about PNWsters being excited when there is sunlight because we don't often see it, the conversation between several coworkers was drifting down the hall and into my office. I heard a woman, who has that charming (to me) tad bit of scandahoovian that many from around here have in their (our) accent because the area was heavily settled 100 years ago by Finns, say, "I don't know. Its sunny out, but if I go out without my jacket, you just know its gonna be cloudy by the time I get to my car..." Someone else said, "Why don't you wear the jacket but roll your window down?"
Yep, we're not big risk takers up here when it comes to the weather.
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