Journalists like to think we’re prepared for anything. Yeah, well … I went to the bathroom and missed the on-stage fight at the Snoop Dogg show at White River a couple years back. Stuff happens.
Something happened Saturday night near the end of dinner:
A big fat fly the size of a raisin emerged from the succotash and hobbled across the table.
Did the fat fly land on the plate? It was a warm night on the mountain, the dining room door was open, the air inside hung.
Did the fat fly get cooked into the dish? It had emerged from the succotash. The fly looked stunned and hobbled, unable to fly. Was that a sheen of sauce on its wings and body?
I had no clue what to.
Atavistic instinct kicked in.
I picked up the glass candle votive and chased the hobbled fly across the table — trying to smash it as it hobbled under the lip of the bread plate, behind the Coke bottle, and finally off the edge of the table.
Stuff happens, even to — or perhaps especially to — restaurant critics.