Yesterday I decided to treat myself to lunch. I had just gotten out of my improv class and had some errands to run at The Grove (which is an obnoxious word for “outdoor mall” here in LA) so I decided to check out some of the new restaurants there I’d been hearing about. After being dumped out by the escalators, I managed to steer clear of the new “Sprinkles” cupcakes store even though there was literally a pack of teenage girls hurrying to line up for their dose of expensive sugar–one of them almost hyperventilating while she squealed, “It’s Spriiiinlesss! They make the beeeessst cupcaaaakes!!!”–making my way past the old boring steakhouse/overpriced sceney no-name restaurant corridor, past the fountains dancing to Frank Sinatra, and I found myself on the doorstep of “The Fat Cow.”
Upon a brief perusal of the menu I decided the Fat Cow was for me. “One please,” I said cheerfully to the host, and he led me inside. He stopped by some high-top tables near the bar and asked, “Would you like to sit here? Or would you like to sit by the sign that says, “Fat Cow?”
My only response was spontaneous laughter. Which made the host realize how that sounded. Which made him laugh hysterically too. There we were, two strangers, wiping away tears and proclaiming, “Fat cow!” The only words we could eek out through our laughter.
“I guess I should sit here then,” I said pointing to the high-tops, “it seems like a sign.”
He was beside himself with embarrassment. And as I climbed into my high-top high-chair (remember, I am 5’2”) he told me that every time someone comes up to him to ask for a table he has to think twice before saying “Welcome to the Fat Cow,” just to make sure he doesn’t say “Welcome Fat Cow.” He said he works in constant fear of offending someone. Maybe something the owners should have thought about when weighing the pros & cons of their clever restaurant name.
So what did I order? The Skinny Cow Chopped Salad. And a water. It’s what I had seen on the menu that made me ask for a table. But I ordered it with a little more gusto than I might have otherwise done. And it was friggin delicious.
I look forward to the time I return to the Fat Cow and eat like a fat cow. Cuz the burgers on the menu looked pretty good. As did the plethora of desserts. Definitely one to check out on a splurge night.
The moral of the story? There was a time when the same situation would have left me crying in a corner over my plate of meat in meat sauce followed by my cookie in creamy goo (other items I saw people eating that I would like to try someday). There was a time when I wouldn’t have been able to see the humor in the situation. And knowing that makes me so thankful for the laughter. I know that not everyone can go straight to guffaws, but having worn both the crying fat pants and the laughing fat pants, let me just tell you, the laughing ones are far more comfortable.
And also. Maybe don’t put the words “Fat Cow” in lights on the wall of your restaurant. Too much room for error. But don’t worry. This Fat Cow will be back soon.