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Dec 8, 2012

How To Screw Up A Dirty Martini

We have been in Puerto Rico for a week getting the boat ready and have been eating out every night so we have had the opportunity to sample many of Fajardo’s restaurants. We found a new favorite (more about that later) and we also found the Mother of all Crappers. This is about that. 

This is us at Di Yukas ~ our new favorite place in Puerto Rico
After a long day of working and cleaning on the boat, our crew, which included our favorite son-in-law, Aaron; our first mate and dingy captain, Haney Buffet (Jimmy’s brother) and Haney’s girl, Kataleena, we all got cleaned up and made a plan to find this little local joint called Rosa’s Seafood.  As we walked up the pier towards our rental car we remembered that the Marina had a nice restaurant—The Port House, which is Spanish for Really Bad Service.

“Hey Lar,” I said, “if you are too tired to drive into Fajardo we could always just eat right here.”  Our crew thought it sounded like a good idea and since everyone was pretty well spent we thought something quick would be nice.

We have eaten there a few times in the past years and the food is pretty hit and miss. One dish may be wonderful and the next horrible, but we were tired and thought we'd give it another try. Haney Buffet (Jimmy’s brother) reminded us that the last time we ate there we had some pretty bad mussels, which were a weird color of red. 
     “Why are they red?” Haney asked the server. She said she would have to go ask the chef. She came back and with a straight face said, and I shit you not, “because they are girl mussels.” After our dumb looks dissipated we came down with the giggles.

Anyhow, we walk in and stand around for about five minutes while the waitress ignores up. I check our image in the mirror to make sure we haven't turned invisible. Except for one other solo diner, we are the only ones in the restaurant. 
     Finally she seats us. 
     Finally she brings us menus. 
     And finally she brings us bread and takes our drink order.   
     Three hours pass. She sets Kataleena and my dirty martinis in front of us ~ huge glasses full of sleep medicine ~ sans olives, so Kat asks for olives. She says they don’t have any. 
     “So how’d you make them dirty?” I ask.  
     “The chef gave me some caper juice,” she says.  Huh? Caper juice? Who does that? Just take my word for it…caper juice can not, never, ever be substituted for olive juice in a martini. Even if you are dead tired and just want to get a little buzz going on before you fall into bed. I tell her, sorry but I can’t drink it and change my order to wine. 
     Three more hours pass. We eat the bread and watch as she stands in the kitchen, her thumb up her butt.
     The Big Guys says, “screw this—lets get out of here!” Well it wasn’t exactly “screw this” but something very similar. 
     So I go into the kitchen and tell her that I need her to come take our order now or we are leaving. She says she will be right there but that she is busy because she has to do everything. 
     “Are you the chef too?” I ask, afraid the answer will be yes. 
     “No, he is,” she says, pointing to a young guy who looks old enough to start shaving any day now but not smart enough to pull his own head out of his rear end.
     I just nod my head and back away and we all get up and walk out the door.
     “I am never going back there!” I say as we get in the car.
I dig in my purse for my glasses as Big backs out and we start to drive away.
     “Wait! I left my glasses on the table,” I say. “Damn, now I have to go back in there!”
     My favorite son-in-law hands me my glasses. ☺ 


  1. That's cuz he is used to living with me. I leave shit everywhere. Sounds genetic to me

    1. That's the first time I've ever done that. You must have gotten it from you dad.