I come from serious game people. My sainted mother, god rest her, belonged to two weekly bridge clubs, a really fierce player. And by that, I do not mean the drag queen “fierce” as in “wildly stylish” but rather “fierce” as in “bloodthirsty”, as in “you lose one more trick and I’m going in the kitchen, find me a knife and cut you like bologna.” That kind of fierce. The rest of the bridge club gals were just the same, I suppose the lighter weight players dropped off or were simply kicked out of the way. Metaphorically, of course. At the same time, all of them were the epitome of southern lady suburban housewifey, making small talk about jello molds, while trying to figure out where the fuck the king of clubs had gotten to. Fierce, I tell you.
So the guy at Chow? He’s lucky I didn’t brain him with my lasagna, which would have been a shame, cause I love Chow’s lasagna. Try it the next time you’re there.
I gotta go