No One Likes A Bad Gyro

Typically, yes, Scott and I are the picture of marital bliss. It's just our lot in life, to be perfectly happy and always on the same page.

Okay, maybe I'm stretching it a bit. We're usually pretty swell with one another, and for that I am extremely grateful. Yet sometimes, certain things can ruin our happy little Adams Family (insert the TV theme here) thing we have going.

It's called bad food.

Last night, we made a pact to skip the roasted chicken dinner I planned and instead rush to the Laundromat to secure clean clothes before any crazy weather could stop us. Thus, we needed some convenient dinner choices.

We elected to phone in a carry out order from Plato's Diner, or "Shiny Diner" as we call it because of its chrome 50s exterior, right across the street from Laundry World, our illustrious home away from home. (Ok, not really. It's cheap, close by, and no one causes trouble. It works for two people who have their perfectly wonderful, nearly-new, awesomely efficient Fisher & Paykel washer and dryer currently collecting dust in storage. That doesn't pain us one single bit. Can't you tell?)

Ubiquitous Gyro poster we've all seen before

So, goodbye Spatchcocked chicken dinner, hello Greek take out. Plato's served us well in the past, with a decent Greek salad platter and very tasty and generous breakfast options. But alas, our luck with Shiny Diner ran plumb out.

The first sign something was amiss was when I stopped  noshing agreeably enough on my semi-rubbery lamb gyro and noticed Scott sitting next to me in the plastic laundry chair, holding his chicken souvlaki pita wrap dejectedly. When Scott's not eating his food, something's wrong.

"Is it not good?", I asked while inhaling bits of pita slathered with tzatziki sauce. "Hmmm," Scott replied. "Hmmm" is never good.

"It's dry. Is there extra tzatziki?" Scott asked.

I fumbled through the plastic bag. Of course, there was not extra tzatziki. We had several salt and pepper packets and some ketchup too, but alas, no extra tzatziki.

Sometimes, I will lovingly volunteer to switch my meal with Scott, sacrificing it all for the sake of improving my husband's disposition. But last night was not one of those times.

I continued on with my lamb gyro, which was heavy on the onions and not that great, but hell, I was in Laundry World at 7pm on a Monday night, intermittently watching a telenovela. What more could I possibly want?

Scott finished about half of his meal and looked over at me. "Can I have a bite of yours?" he finally asked.

What could I do? The man was severely disappointed in his meal. I wasn't about to deny him my mediocre gyro.

I passed my Styrofoam box over to him and he took a big bite, grimacing. "It's too oniony." He proceeded to hem and haw, sighing deeply, and generally acting like all was lost and this life was not a bowl of cherries.

I tossed our take out boxes into the trash with great ceremony, bashing them down next to empty Downy bottles and old dryer sheets. The telenovela played on, while we had our own little melodramatic moment.
Scott slouched in the uncomfortable plastic chair, with a scowl on his face. I silently read my copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover, which is a pretty scandalous read for laundry environs.

Sometimes, you just eat bad food. You live, you learn.

So long, Shiny Diner.