"Stepping out with my baby" --Irving Berlin

Saturday night we go to a fusion restaurant in Arlington--Chinese and Peruvian. I am not making that up.

It's sort of like Latvian-Ethiopian.

Okay, it's not. That part I made up. But it could be. Who's to say?

I am the one that has brought us to this Chinese-Peruvian juncture. I am forever in search of something new and different. It creates quite the tension in me (and not in the good way) because there are so many restaurants that we have enjoyed and probably should support, and, yet, there is always something new and wondrous, at least in theory, around the next corner. So, off we troop...

We arrive, via Metro, in what should be plenty of time, but the Interwebilicous directions are off. We follow them only to arrive... not "here." We call the restaurant three times (first time by me, second and third time by Hubby) because we are tragically lost. The second conversation goes a little like this:

Hubby: We are still trying to find you.
Manager: We are at the corner of X and Y.
Hubby: We are on X and we've traveled in both directions from the Courthouse Metro station but don't know where you are.
Manager: We are right at the corner of X and Y.
Hubby: What is the street address?
Manager: The intersection of X and Y.
Hubby: The street address? Is there a number?
Manager: At the corner of X and Y.

We grab strangers on the street: Do you know where X intersects with Y? They are befuddled. They scratch their heads. They point but without conviction. They give vague guesses. We wander some more. We are in Arlington so we pass restaurant after restaurant after restaurant. Each has shiny, happy people inside. Couldn't we just... No. We press on.

We finally get there after the third call when Hubby gets better at playing Marco Polo.

Hubby: It's still us. Listen, are there any landmarks near the restaurant?
Manager: I can see a Wachovia and a Wendy's from here.
Hubby: OKAAAY!! When you look out of the restaurant, where is the Wachovia?

And so on until we find the freakin' restaurant.

The food is... interesting... and some of it is quite good. Some is just eh. They have a dim sum menu with curious juxtapositions.

The place is modern and chic where it appears one must always have a "too cool for school" expression and all the waitstaff and much of the clientele are dressed in black.

The hostess, who is clad in a simple black dress, looks tasteful even as she is showing some cleavage. In contrast, our waitress, in a different black dress, is on the verge of popping out like the winning muffins from a greased pan on America's Test Kitchen. Her breasts overfloweth. A lot. She is clearly Wonderbra-ed but, more than that, her dress is arranged like that J-Lo piece of cloth a while back. We hope for the invisible tape because we, and everyone, see way too much of her flesh. No really. Way too much. Sort of like this but not as tasteful:


Even Hubby, who has never denied his fondness for female anatomy, nearly gets whiplash, trying to avoid looking into the blazing breastitude that is at eye level every time she comes by.

Me: That's a bit much.
Hubby: Um, yeah. I'm not even going to pretend to not notice that.
Me: It's ridiculous.
Hubby: I'll bet she gets a lot of tips that way.

I feel awkward for this waitress and for us.

No one ordered a side of boob?

Nope.

Yet, here it is. Now, what to do with it?

Ultimately, we do leave her an okay tip because, despite the overmammification, the service is okay and I feel for the busboys who probably get a share of the tip money.

Plus, we joke, maybe now she can afford to buy something decent to wear.