Oh, What a Night

San Antonio is the epicenter of the world's best Tex-Mex cuisine.
Last night, however, I went to a trendy, upscale Mexican restaurant I won't even bother to mention to attend a birthday party for a friend of mine's husband.
The food was just awful.
I got a combo platter and the enchilada sauce was dark, acrid and too hot, the beans were too chili powdered, the inedible guacamole was spiked with horribly hot peppers, and the taco was good but entirely too skimpy.
But gee, what a lovely, colorful room. And the waitress? 100% Anglo. Half a million Hispanics in town and our waitress was a Trinity University coed named Amanda or Chloe.
All of it was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Plus, someone I barely know was sitting across from me, pretending to be an opinionated Republican, just to yank my chain.
And the old lady to my right smelled like she'd dived into a vat of softened Camay soap and stewed in it for so long, I could smell her coming from the front door.
Between the bad food, the faux Republican making incendiary remarks that made my eye tic and the stinky, cheap soap lady to my right, I wanted to crawl away, gagging.
At the end of dinner when I went to pay up and bolt to my car, a sudden downpour kept me pressed against the front door, weighing the pros and cons of making a run for it and ruining my brown Joseph Seibel nubuck walking shoes, or having to remain captive with the old Camay soap lady pressed against my back and getting that stink embedded in my shirt.
I bolted.
Eighteen hours later, I can still smell that horrible soap. I think it burnt my nasal cilia.
But it's okay, because the indigestion from that paint removing enchilada sauce is a great distraction.