And the chef laughed, and laughed

I assume that what he was doing from the kitchen.

Tonight, I was having dinner with my travel companions at an Italianish restaurant.  First off, my impression of Bostonian food is that it lacks the flavor punch of southern food.  They are more restrained with the garlic and red pepper.  (Ethnic foods aside, of course.  We had some marvelous food at an Afghanistani restaurant the other night.)  Secondly, this place seems to think fairly highly of itself, but when is all is said and done, it is a hotel restaurant.

The restaurant was running a special promotion of "all you can eat pasta" for folks running the marathon tomorrow.  The menu said the first portion would be large and followed with as many smaller portions as the diner would like to eat.  The portion that arrived (for my companions) was no bigger than the pasta portions we experienced two nights ago.  And, the waiter failed to return to our table until sufficient time had passed that it was no longer worth it to attempt a second portion.

I bucked the trend at my table and ordered a special salad.  The description included bib lettuce, pulled chicken, something I'm unfamiliar with, and poached egg.  I received a bowl of fresh, tender lettuces.  In one area of the bowl, there was a small pile of filaments of very crispy items and in another area of the bowl, there was a smear of egg yolk.  I figured out that the dainty, crispy bits were the finest shreds of chicken that had been fried until crunchy.

I couldn't decide if the chef was too clever for his own good . . . or if he'd finally gone mad trying to create something cutting edge . . . or he assumed some yokel was trying to pretend to be sophisticated enough to think it was fancy food extraordinaire?  I suspect he was laughing at me (or anyone else was making him work beyond throwing sauce on pasta).

Or, perhaps karma was having a laugh at me, again, for turning my nose up at the chain restaurants at the mall across the street.