I had decided I wasn't going to write this post - even though my wife wanted me to. I throw up. No one notices. I've been stealthily depositing undigested, gloopy, stuff since I was 17. I remember that time well I threw up into a carrier (plastic shopping) bag during art class. Luckily the pukeline was just below the holes that are supposed to prevent suffocation. So there was no leakage.
I wasn't going to post it not because I'm embarrassed but because it's literally the sort of pukey drivel I've been trying not to write. However, aside from a couple of +1s and some comments I've received very little feedback about what you want to read.
On the 21st December we had tickets for the original, and best, Die Hard. Which they were showing at the cinema near us. We took a taxi to the complex of shops, leisure stuff, and restaurants.
Sacrebleu
We rolled into Brasserie Blanc. In the Francophone world a brasserie is a type of restaurant with a relaxed setting, little did they know that relaxed atmosphere was about to be shaken up. Brasserie is weirdly similar to brassiere in spelling. I wonder if anyone wonders in expecting a lingerie shop. We sat down, er I mean rolled up to a table, looked at the menu and decided we would be going there on Valentines day. They serve Chateaubriand steak and baked Alaska. Even though I was sick (and they still charged full price) I still really want to eat there again. It was probably nothing to do with my starter of Pumpkin soup and main of 'Award winning burger'. It was a weird mismatch of flavours that I was reminded of shortly after finishing my burger as it led the escape up my oesophagus. Luckily it wasn't projectile. But it was quickly followed by more. I was pinching my lips together to prevent it spraying out. My wife handed me a napkin. I knew that wouldn't work so I frantically looked for a suitable vessel to spew into. I found myself thinking of this. I quickly formulated a plan and with my one remaining free hand I tipped my few remaining Pomme Frites from their dish into my wife's dish of Pomme Frites and held the dish up to my lips. I quickly let go of my lips as another load of puke reached escape velocity from my stomach. I was milliseconds from disaster. Vomiting from the nose is never pretty. The dish was full. I carefully placed it on the table and covered it with a napkin.
My wife discretely, and apologetically, informed the waiter. We skipped desert, paid, left a tip, lamented over the horror that awaited the dish washer, and left for the movie.
To be fair to the restaurant it wasn't their fault; I throw up really easily thanks to being used to throwing up often in the past. The food was good and I'll be eating there again once my disguise arrives.
