We—I, and my spousal unit, Violeta—pulled into DC after a
conventionally miserable flight from Guadalajara in seats apparently
designed for dwarves with our feet almost in our pockets and Delta
trying to sell us beer at seven dollars a can. I didn’t get it. If you
can sell watery brew at seven balloonishly inflating greenbacks a can,
why do you need an airline?
The occasion was a visit to a woman
with whom I immediately became involved, though with Violeta’s
permission. She weighs seven and a half pounds and has a smile that
would make a dead man weep. This may have little geopolitical
importance, though.
Anyway, the proud father celebrated having
produced, or coproduced, a baby who probably deserves a world run by
psychiatrically less fascinating adults, by taking about a dozen of us
to Fogo da Something, a Brazilian restaurant on Pennsylvania across from
the Trump Hotel. This costs $64 a head for all the meat and salad bar
you could eat, desserts and drinks extra, so with tip you can crawl out,
stuffed and economically depleted, for about $90. Salad bar good,
desserts swell, meat tasteless. You can do better for a sixth the price
at La Carreta, down the lake from us in Mexico.
More @ The Saker
