They're claiming that I chose the restaurant, but I really don't recall making any such decision. FireLake, in downtown Minneapolis, located in the Radisson lobby is a terrible place for a happy hour. There aren't really any gathering pockets, the food's not that great and the wine list is abyssmal. This is where I go if I have to go somewhere for a work lunch and Zelo is packed.
I guess the food is okay. The entrees are, anyway. While we ordered the overly smokey and unwieldy wings, stale tasting chips, cold fries, watery/greasy artichoke dip and passable flat bread pizzas, someone was watching us.
Luckily, I'd just finished a dirty martini with blue cheese stuffed olives when Laura asked me, "Where are our purses?"
Yup, they were gone. What ensued was a little chaotic. One coworker actually had the fucking nerve to CHASTISE me for where I lay my purse, next to my foot, on the floor. "Ooooh, no. Purse 101." What the fuck is that? Ladies out there, was there some sort of class that I missed. Some fucking certificate handed out along with the opportunity to be glib in the face of some one's misfortune? Really? Would you prefer that I just lay down right here on the floor so it's that much easier for you to kick me, you smug ugly purse toting floozy? Of COURSE no one stole YOURS it this side of 1974 TACKY! Mine was cute and very hip. Why, I'd just seen in this weeks People Style issue (shut up) that this was one of the cool, hip purses for the season. It was the Kylie Minouge of purses! Just petite enough, supple, sturdy and downright ADORABLE!
More than anything, though, is the reaction that our discovery that we'd been burgled didn't flap anyone at the restaurant. I know, that I'm downtown and there's plenty of crime around here, but aren't you at all worried that this crime happened in the middle of your restaurant at your peak time of business? First of all, the manager looks just like one of the cast members from Saturday Night Live. He had no chin. I cannot respect a man who lacks a chin. It's undignified.
We had to give our report to two transit cops, chubby soulless creatures. They said that they would check the dumpsters in the area, but I could see it in their eyes that they were lying to me. Pacify the bitch. Yeah, sure. You wanna pacify me, I want a replacement purse, I want that exact same wallet, the $100 crocodile skin beauty that I bought at Marshall Fields last Christmas. I want all of my damn lipsticks back!
More than anything, though, really, I wish that the manager of Firelake had at least pretended to care that a crime took place in his restaurant on his watch. And if only I could have been comforted by some decent food. Their appetizers really do suck.