It's the ship that made the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs

I'm not an extremely motivated person by nature, which I consider a small failing of mine. Every now and then, though, something happens (usually bad) that reinvigorates my passion for a particular activity. In this case, it was a brunch-turned-sour that spoke volumes to me and convinced me to write about it. Call it schadenfraude-tastic if you like. I guess I'd call it human. Conveniently, in a roundabout sort of way, that's the theme for my new postings! Sci-fi brunch reviews!

Ball Square Cafe: A Review

The backstory I've heard is quite the fractious tale. The owner of Ball Square Cafe (BSC) and Soundbites are former co-workers (at Soundbites) and had a falling out, which led the owner of the former to open his own restaurant. Proving that there's still hilarity to spare in the universe, the new restaurant, BSC, opened directly adjacent to Soundbites. I'd heard that the two owners occasionally get into kerfuffles on the street. How I wish I'd seen one of those.

Based on bits and bobs from friends and colleagues, I expected Ball Square Cafe to be better than Soundbites.

Service

Decent... if you know the Italian owner. My friend and I were twice passed up to be seated in favor of the owner's friends, who were curiously also Italian (more on this later). The self-serve coffee and water was one of many similarities between Soundbites and BSC, and the time from order to food receipt was average. 3 of 5.

Quality

Kind of like Episode III. You wanted it to be good. You really, really wanted it to be good. But, despite being better than some, it wasn't that great. Not awful, but not great. 3 of 5.

Coffee

Why am I making coffee its own category? Frack you, that's why. In any case, it wasn't very good. I don't even remember the type of coffee they used, but it was an off-brand Seattle-based distributor. Quality aside, the coffee pots were located in a relatively secluded section of the restaurant, making traffic jams and spilled liquids commonplace. 2 of 5.

Quantity

Surprisingly large. I couldn't finish the grilled mashed potatoes. 4 of 5.

Price

A bit too much for the quality. $2.75 for coffee? 3 of 5.

Ambience

The trash compactor on the Death Star - unappealing, confined, and imminently exitable. It just wasn't right. My ideal brunch locale is averagely spacious with a relatively gentle atmosphere and just the right amount of chatter, sunlight, and service. The fact that we'd been bypassed for seating didn't help, but what really drove us up the wall was the treatment by the owner. It was clear that he saw my friend and I as trespassers, as people who he would only begrudgingly serve. He was more akin to the Soup Nazi than the operator of a popular brunch restaurant. He even instructed my friend to unfold his legs because "they were in the way of traffic" (they weren't). In short, he was a rude, obsessive control-freak, and that was enough to ruin our meal. I can see why he could get into fights on the street. Combined with the cost, the unappealing atmosphere, and the only-decent food, it was a wholly forgettable experience. 2.5 of 5.

Total: 2.9 of 5

Still better than Soundbites, but that doesn't mean much.

The Farm League All-Star Game

OK, I'll be honest - I watched a few innings of the Little League World Series. Totally by choice. Why? Because I was at the gym on a stationary bike, there was a TV on the bike, and nothing else was on.

I feel like a lot of these very short stories will seem a lot like dreams - I can't remember how I arrived at the particular locale where the memory takes place, and the characteristics I DO remember seem odd and painfully usual. This story is no different.

Somehow or another, I "qualified" (probably meaning that my father spoke to the right people) for the Burlington Farm League All-Star game. I was likely between the ages of 7 and 10. I remember nothing from that day except for my sole at-bat. I was apprehensive in-the-hole and nervous on-deck, but it wasn't until I walked towards the plate that I could've floated away because of the amount of butterflies in my stomach (zing!). I don't remember what I was wearing, save for the oversized helmet. I stepped into the batter's box, and waited for the first pitch.

The ball came right at me. I instinctively jumped, but the ball hit my cleats. It didn't really hurt that much. I took first base. I don't remember advancing on the basepaths, hitting again, or playing the field, though, for some reason, I'm sure I did. The image that first comes to mind when this memory comes up is a view of myself (in the third person) jumping over the ball inside. Strange.

The Perfect Hybrid

Although it may sound like the name of a pub in rural England, the name of this blog is in fact a reference to a most interesting recipe I came across this morning, "Goat Cheese-Stuffed Jalapenos Wrapped in Bacon." A heart attack disguised as a vegetable-based food? Probably. Deliciously appetizing? Most definitely.

(I thought about including the bacon portion of the recipe in the title, but "Spicy and Salty Goat" just doesn't have the same ring to it.)

Anyway, as this is my first post, I'll make it brief. For the time being, feel free to gaze at the attached picture of pure perfection whilst I determine what my next post will contain. Perhaps a bacon story is in order?