Bolted 0
Many years ago when I lived in Northern Virginia, my roommates and I went out to a little backwater Mexican restaurant that my then-local rag said didn’t look like much but had great food.
While we were there, a rather large party came in, ordered and scarfed up lots of food, then picked a fight with the waiter. While the waiter was going for help, they left. In short, they bolted the check. We were quite taken aback at the effrontery.
On the bright side, at least they did not use explosives.
In related gastronomic news, my two or three regular readers know that, after living in the greater Philadelphia co-prosperity sphere for over a quarter-century, I am fussy about my hoagies and cheesesteaks. Many eateries in these parts seem to think that putting some facsimile of beef and some cheese-like substance, along with random other ingredients of dubious lineage, between two pieces of bread somehow morphs the concoction into a “Philly Cheesesteak.” Usually, it’s something that, if you tried to sell it in Philly, would get you tossed into the Schuylkill after your knees were shot out.
Consequently, when I see “cheesesteak” on the menu, I ask the server to “Tell me about your cheesesteak.” If the response includes “sauce” or several other key words, I order the grilled cheese. You must be truly talented to screw up a grilled cheese.
I had a cheesesteak at a local Jersey Mike’s tonight. I must say, it was a proper cheesesteak, not just meat- and cheese-like substances on some bun-like thing.
It was almost as good as the one at Elias, which is exquisite and to die for.
