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V Mc B

Archive for February, 2009

The Attack!

“One can never be too careful these days.” Our grandmothers have always said it, yet we so often roll our eyes and say, “Whatever, dude. Mission Hill/Chinatown is lovely at this time of year, so get over it. COLLEGE!”

It was with this devil-may-care attitude that I entered a certain establishment this evening. Let’s just say it was a subterranean Harvard Square eatery/drinkery with the initials J.H. Rob and I, after a day of mutual forced creativity (stupid jobs), were ready for a hearty meal accompanied by delicious brews. To sweeten the pot, we were tempted into Harvard by the prospect of meeting the most famous cat on Twitter. (@sockington, if you must know. He’s more popular than CNN. We didn’t meet him, but that’s for another day.)

So. Upon arrival at the-establishment-that-should-not-be-named, we settled into two comfy seats at the end of the bar. I ordered a light and delightful lager; Rob chose some nastiness laden with hops. We settled on food: a predictable hummus/lentil salad for the lady, and a manly burger slathered with evil for the man. Everything is delicious and normal. We eat. The bartender dutifully asks us how everything is. We say, “Very good!”

And it WAS! Until this happened.

Actually, full disclosure: I’m not quite sure how to describe what happened, because I freaked out right in the middle of it. While I was digging into the end of my salad, it fell. From the ceiling. A bug — nay, a COCKROACH — measuring about 1.5 inches long.

This much I know: It dropped into my lap. I must have touched it with my hand because I flicked it into the netherlands. I screamed (yes, SCREAMED). And I jumped out of my seat.

After the scream, the bartender ran over, at which point I muttered some crap about a mythical giant bug (which was nowhere to be seen at the time), and how I was sure that it DIDN’T come from my food — that much I knew — and I wasn’t mad at them.

With good reason, they probably thought I was trying to scam a free meal. They were very nice to me, and they came around the bar and haphazardly looked for the bug, but it was clear that they thought I was a freak. Woefully embarrassed, I went straight to the bathroom. I checked my pockets, my boots, the back of my sweater. I was satisfied that the pestilence wasn’t in there, yet I still felt it crawling all over me.

Still feeling it EVERYWHERE, I went back to our seats. I was calm. Collected. Not the type of girl who’d scream over a bug, oh no. But Rob had semi-glorious news: “They found it,” he said. They FOUND IT! And it was BIG!!

As it turns out, I’d flicked the beast ONTO the bar (oops) and he made himself at home on a ketchup bottle. The patrons next to us who SOMEHOW caught wind of my outburst (gee, I wonder how), happened to notice the 2-inch bug (corroborated this time) and alerted the authorities. By the time I got back, I was vindicated.

Vindicated!

We left promptly. And they comped our whole tab, which was unexpected but very nice.

Honestly, I’m not sure that an underground restaurant in a city should be fully accountable for this. I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt, considering what’s above them … yet I’m not going back anytime soon.

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