Dinner, anyone? You can join me, I won't bite... you.

Ate dinner at a place called "Mojo's on 86th" in Des Moines, IA today. I had a spinach salad with a warm bacon vinaigrette dressing, grilled apples, Maytag bleu cheese, and walnuts. There were bits of carbonized bacon in the salad. Delicious!

Then I had grilled duck with deep fried polenta (decidedly odd stuff... and stuffed with sausage, i think) and a black berry sauce that brought uber fancy ketchup to mind.
The duck was... amazing. Like a bridge between chicken and pork that made it there via the red meat road. Huge rind of fat across one side, pink in the middle, delightful.


The presentations were nice, too, so I added pictures. Don't know how they'll turn out, but... whatever. There really was only one thing that would have made my dinner better, but that sauce will have to wait a while, I think.

I had Chocolate pecan pie with bourbon cinnamon ice cream for dessert and it was delectable, as well. Presentation wasn't that impressive... so no picture.

I had to eat a couple of dollars worth of tip, though... didn't want Eddie to have a coronary.

Now the weevil-y part:

We're sitting there, KT and I, and this lady comes out with a tiny cocktail plate of fruit and cheeses, and bruschetta. All four of our eyes light up and we say, almost in stereo, "Do you think there's a happy hour thing going on in there?"

We're sitting on the patio (did I mention that? It was in the high sixties, low seventies, in Des Moines today with a nice breeze. So we were sitting on the patio.) and it seemed unsafe to leave the table alone while we both went and looked. Someone might steal our food! So I said, "You wait here, I'll go scope it out."

Chivalry lives! Or something...

I went into the building, where the light to dark transition made it hard to see very clearly. I could see a stack of foods and cocktail plates on a small table in the corner of the bar - just like happy hour in the bars I've worked in.

Admittedly, I've never worked in a place this high falutin', though.

It was even surrounded by people who looked like they'd just left their semi-professional day jobs. I fit in just fine in my dockers and button up shirt... if you ignore the massive chin beard and cowboy boots, that is.

So I got a plate and started dishing up two of each thing (quit looking at me like that! I was going to share with KT, so she didn't have to get her preggers self up) when this guy says, "Sir, this is a private party."

UH-OH!

What do you say to that?

Well, I said, "Really? Did you want some?" and pushed the plate I had been filling under his nose.

Turns out he most definitely did not want any. So I took it back to my table.