Arpa Restaurant

I had to go to the doctor few weeks ago in order to establish if my body (and my mental health by the way) was doing all right or not. Turned out to be that I'm a "healthy young man" and that that red flag I thought I was seeing was nothing more than a combination of stress and anxiety. Anyway, when I was sitting at his office we started talking about nothing in particular, chatting about this and that and I end up mentioning my previous trip to the Windy City. Turned out that my doctor grew up there and when I mentioned to him "Cafe Iberico" his eyes sparked and we end up talking more about tapas restaurants, than the reason for my visit that morning. My doctor is a cool dude.


I asked him if he knew of a good tapas restaurant in town, because he seemed like a big fan of them, and he mentioned a place called "Arpa". But instead of recommend it to me, he warned me to stay away from it as if it was unprotected and casual sex, or lots of sun, or cigarettes and fatty foods. We talked about Cafe Iberico up in CHI, that he knows very well, and how shitty, overpriced, and crappy this other Arpa restaurant is.

Not long after that chat with my doctor, *the one* descended from an staircase at Charlotte's Douglas International Airport and into my arms. With a big smile, sparks in my eyes, and my heart bits out of control I received her with several picos and a brand new pair of tweezers. While passing cars on the interstate on our way to Charlotte's uptown later that day, I mentioned to her a tapas restaurant called "Arpa" and that we could give it a try later that week. Didn't mention anything to her about my doctor's comments of the aforementioned establishment because I wanted her to judge for herself and to give me her opinion (besides being a tea connoisseur, she's also a leading expert on tapas restaurants across the world).

The opportunity came few days later when we went to meet K, one of her childhood friends who lives in town. When we got there, K's unique long hair was waiting for us at the bar. What followed that night, was a combination of a great time witnessing two girls engaged in some of the most fun and interesting girly-girl talk; and some shitty overpriced food. But before I bored you to dead with my review of the food that end up on our table, let me elaborate a couple of ideas that I got from their conversation.

First of all, K must've thought that I'm a very quiet dude, and as a matter of fact I am kind of quiet, but not that quiet. I didn't do much talking and didn't even tried to, because even before we stepped into the restaurant I knew that that night was about them, not me. I knew that after not seeing each other like for five years or so, there was a lot of shit they wanted to catch up with and not even my story of when I was put behind bars for a week in a prison cell in Siberia would make them turn around to see me. That night was for them to talk about their life back in the days when they were going to school (high school) and what they've done and haven't in the last years. And I was eager to learn more about my blue-eyed girlfriend and her stories when she was young and restless.

And if the food on the table was as crappy as only an over priced restaurant can make it, the stories they narrated were a banquet to my ears. Those stories were actually more along the lines of those buffets were you can eat "all you can" and there's a combination of every single possible food known to an overweight human being. They talked about as many topics as two girly-girls with a couple of wine glasses in their heads could, ranging from hair products to past flames and their whereabouts. And as far as I remember, there was quite a few old flames in their lives.


That had me thinking, previous flames that is, and the feelings that it awakes in me. I've been able to identify and isolate two feelings whenever *the one* and I talk about that topic, and I was also able to identify those two same feelings when J and K were talking about their crushes on football players with sandy blonde hair. In one hand I feel jealous knowing and thinking that there was someone else in *the one's* life that kept her awake at night, someone else that was in her thoughts; feel jealous thinking that another man made her sweet heart bit faster than usual with a simple smile and a few words; and jealous and I always get this uneasy feeling thinking of their lips touching. For good or worse there's this Latino dude inside me, somewhere, that still feels the urge to feel that he's a big macho and that he should be the center of every possible past, present and future universe. A bunch of bullshit, I know, just like that restaurant branding itself as a tapas place.

But I also kill those thoughts with the hard fact that those dudes didn't know how to appreciate, treasure, and realize what a great girl Jenn is. Or maybe they did it in their own way, but at some point they let her go not knowing how very few girls like her there's still among us. They had their chance to grow to know her, to learn what is it that she likes and dislikes, what she loves and hates, what makes her happy and what doesn't; they had their chance to learn about her past and to create a present together filled with lots of memories and common situations; and even though some of them didn't have to catch a flight to go and see her, the truth is that she's worth trans-hemispheric flights when that situation applied.
At some point the less dumb among them would realize this facts and will kick themselves in the butt for their rampant stupidity and poor decisions; and if they have more than one brain cell alive they'll also realize that if they want to try a comeback they're up to a very fierce and steep competition.

All right, I got a bit sidetracked because what I really wanted to talk about was the restaurant and the food; so let me go ahead and move on.

I am not gona go through the whole menu and our order, but I'm gona choose two dishes and why those very simple and traditional items in any respectful tapas restaurant completely sucked at this "Arpa" hole in the wall. How is it possible to fuck up a goat cheese plate, ah? What was brought to the table was two round, testicle-looking fried goat cheese in a very fancy decorated plate. No tomato sauce, no bread to eat with, no nothing: just the fancy little plate, the minuscule goat cheese testicles and the smile of our waiter. If you cannot come up with a decent goat cheese plate in a tapas restaurant you should change your name to "Arpa Bank", or "Sperm Donation Center Arpa" or something about those lines: "we extend you a car loan and give you goat cheese while you wait", should be the slogan of a place like that.
Then you have the Grilled Calamari. Good God. Up in Cafe Iberico in the windy city, they give you the whole animal with a lot of lemon so that you can eat, enjoy, and satisfy your appetite. At Arpa they give you THREE rings of something that I guess was calamari hidden inside a salad of greens -on another fancy little plate, followed by another smile from out waiter. I had to dig out that salad to find the calamari rings and took advantage that J and K were talking non-stop and ate all three rings. I thought there was at least five rings, three for me and one for each one of them, but actually they had to move to the shrimp because they couldn't find any more calamari (sorry baby).

In plain-O-words that restaurant sucks! But my girlfriend kicks ass and her friend K rocks; and their conversation was very funny and interesting and the Amstel Light that I drank was ice cold and better than any other plate on the table that night; and only Shakira has had the malfunctioning balls to move her heart from one geographical location to another; and my doctor was right both about my health and the restaurant and I'm definitely a VERY lucky and happy man today. And I'm fully aware of that.

And I ain't frikking going back to Arpa unless they need sperm donors, with a complimentary goat cheese plate while you wait - ha!