I’ve been on a semi-health kick as of recently. Salad quotient has risen dramatically. Of course, this time last year, I was still convinced that I loathed salads, unaware that my tastes had changed. Mmm. Salad.

Yesterday, I went to lunch with Chungy. I picked her up from her summer job at Hybrigen, a science lab that does all sorts of nifty stuff that was way above my head, and we went to eat at a Pasta/Pizza restaurant thing. It was arranged quasi-buffet style, and the guy behind the counter has been declared my new hero. He’s one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. He jokingly tried to coerce Chungy into deciding what to order, then made fun of her pronunciation of “Chicken Florentine” (Floh-ren-TYNE, being incorrect, naturally). Salads came with the deal, so he then asked us what dressing we preferred. “House or Ranch?” he asked me as he filled my bowl. “Ranch…” I started to say as he reached for the “House” ladle. “Try the House, it’s delicious”, he said, ladling the dressing onto my salad. “Why not?” I laughed as he handed me the bowl. Chungy received similar treatment. Hilarious. He was one of those radiantly happy, middle-aged, thick-accented Italian guys that can get away with anything with a laugh. He made my day.

Leaving, we saw him sitting down, enjoying his own House salad, and we promised we’d be back. I threatened that I might try the Ranch dressing, and he assured me that this would not happen while he was around. He warned Chungy not to work too hard, in case she got rich. I think I’ll call Chungy and find out if we can go back tomorrow or Friday, as I leave for Parsons on Saturday. I can’t remember the name of the restaurant, but it receives the Priscellie Stamp of Approval. Italian guy? You rock.

And the House was delicious.