The Pleas Club

The last meal of my trip (and this should take care of food blogs for a while) was at a tapas bar called Chai's. (Sorry, I can't find a link. I think the place is too new.) I was disappointed at first, because I thought my sister said "topless" bar. It's just as well; it would've been weird to be at a topless bar with my little sister. But hey, if she was paying, I might've gotten over it. The food was fantastic, but I kept hearing my dad's voice in my head as each tapa arrived at our table. (The link is for my dad's benefit, who asked me three different times what I was talking about during the drive home from the airport.) "Nine dollars and that's all we get?" I'm not entirely sure I'd disagree with Dad on that one.

My favorite dish was called plea (plee-a), which was beef tartare. I pretended to know what that was when the waitress offered that as Hey-you-know-you're-ordering-raw-meat-right? clarification. I loved it, especially with all the Thai seasonings (lime zest, basil, lemon grass, mint, and Thai chilies), but as I think about what I actually ate, I'm wondering if I should get a little grossed out. Nah, f#$% that - it was great.

I saved myself from my third potentially embarrassing moment of the night when the waitress checked with us to see how we liked the plea. "Some like it, some hate it," she said. "I love it." How funny would it have been if I'd said "Why do people gotta be plea-hatahs?" Okay, it wouldn't have been that funny. But at the time - with a few adult beverages consumed - I think it would've killed. (And admit it - you're laughing right now. C'mon.)