A funny thing happened on the way home from the doctor last week: I tripped and fell face-first into this.



OK, strictly speaking that's an utter falsehood. But I did, per her gentle orders, reintroduce meatstuffs to my diet. And I knew that with more than two years of vegetarianism under my belt, I'd have to take it slowly, reintroducing things carefully and gently.

So, you know, I thought I'd have a side of beef.



Because you know what? It turns out I have an ironclad constitution. Aside from the fact that my stomach acid is directionally challenged, my insides are pretty much made of graphene.

I didn't want my virgin foray into burger town to be a lackluster affair, though, so I chose the Bottega burger, a liberally seasoned ground beef patty with crunchy Bibb lettuce, pepper-crusted tomato, and a schmear of homemade mayo on a grilled sesame seed bun. The bread was my only beef (HAR!) with this burger—it was charred precisely to my specifications (medium)—because it's too dry and crumbly and, frankly, a little dull.

To start, though, I had the eggplant snack, which I had been told JBSH had ordered not once, not twice, but five separate times in a single sitting the week prior. Still, I was not prepared for what hit the table.



This is ... beyond description. It's deceptively simple—thin slices of eggplant pan-fried to stiff crispness, sandwiched around fresh slices of tomato, mozzarella and mascarpone cheese, capers, and basil. The tomatoes are warmed through and the cheeses are oozy and melty, with the briny capers and grassy herb. But it's the mascarpone that's magic. It lends an unexpected bright tang that wakes up your taste buds and makes your eyes widen in surprise. (This is the most fun part for spectators, apparently, which I didn't realize until I noticed JBSH intensely eyeing me in amusement, waiting for my post-first-bite "oh!".)



You needed to see it again. That is some phenomenal, addictive stuff.

After that, because I have only a passing acquaintance with portion control, I had the white bean soup, hearty with vegetables and sinful porchetta.



I only had a cup, though. I'm not a complete glutton.

Plus I had to save some room for my favorite polenta tiramisu.



I don't even like tiramisu, people. But the sweet, espresso-soaked corn cake gets me every time. It is the only tiramisu I will eat. Yet.

I also grabbed a quick shot of JBSH's black bottom pudding. Because saying "bottom" makes me giggle a little bit.



Heehee! Black bottom.

It was a lovely lunch. The rain came down in sheets outside the window, but I was nestled into a banquette with my two favorite fellas, TFin and JBSH, having drinks before noon and all the livestock my heart could desire.

YOU'RE WELCOME, cardiovascular system.

The FinFam used to descend upon any range of local eateries for Sunday brunch, traipsing in in vast hordes with varying looks of too-much-sleep or last-night's-makeup crusted around the eyes, screeching "IS IT NOON YET?"

We live in the Bible belt. In our county one can order a cocktail, but not until after 12 p.m. Because that's when Jesus takes his nap.

That Sunday tradition has for the most part been replaced with more recession-friendly activities, like cooking at home and drinking bottom-shelf hooch.

But this week we revived it for a day, making our triumphant return to Avo, a relatively new 'ham establishment characterized by one of those infuriatingly unpronounceable names that makes you say, "Hey, you wanna go to Ay voe? Ah voe? Whatever?"

Turns out it's Ah vo, short for avocado.




The decor is whitewhitewhite with big windows ushering in pretty light and views of storybook rooftops. When I saw the too-cheerful sunflowers occupying oh-so-modern square vases on each table, I was all, "Mary Engelbreit decorated this place?"

But then I realized they were real, and I had my comeuppance.



TFin and I both ordered the Sutter's Hill, a sunrise comprised of Hangar One vodka, freshly squeezed orange juice, tangerine juice, and house-made grenadine.



Topped with one of those horrible cartoonish cherries, which I normally hate but relished in this incarnation. It gave the whole thing a Shirley Temple quality. If Shirley needed a swift buzz. The tangerine juice cut the orange juice's classic cloying nature, and the grenadine was sweet without being too mawkishly cherry flavored.

I ordered the fish tacos, beer-battered cod with cabbage slaw and poblano salsa.



The fish was a little underseasoned, but these are all about texture, and the cabbage slaw added that beautifully. It was subtly dressed, but the poblano salsa, a nice touch, needed a little more kick for my taste. The slightly charred tortillas were a nice touch, but a girl needs more than two wimpy lime wedges!

For dessert, I had the blackberry chantilly pie, a rather odd concoction that LSis declared "like a Jell-O no-bake dessert." The gingerbread crust was strangely not at all crusty, and there's just something disconcerting about eating purple food.



The chocolate mousse TFin ordered fared not much better.



The florentines were crunchy and nutty, but the mousse lacked chocolate flavor and the brandied cherries may have given an unsuspecting LSis baby Stella's first hangover. And the portion was absurd. A mousse is a dessert best served by the spoonful, not the bucketload.

I think the problem with Avo for Sunday brunch is that you're looking to be wowed—The Foodimentary Guy ordered the steak and potatoes, which was $20. When you order cocktails at $10 a pop, your expectations are high. You want fireworks, or solid-gold flatware, or shirtless waiters.

The dining room was echoingly empty, which made the pace of the meal rather breakneck. On our way out we ducked into Dram, the whiskey bar that occupies downstairs space from Avo, and the menu there looks inventive (if also prohibitively expensive). I spied bison burgers and masculine black-and-white horse photographs and—gasp!—poutine.

Oh, maybe I'll go back. I can do without some of the finer things, like "laundry detergent" and "dog food."

Avo
2721 Cahaba Rd
Mountain Brook, AL 35223-2333
205.871.8212

Birmingham recently snagged its very own Five Guys Burgers and Fries, and despite more than four years as a DC native, I'd never heard of the District bastion.

That could be because I'm not generally a big burger girl, or it could be that I have a tendency to avoid leaving the house and refer to things that happened more than a year ago as "recent."

In 2007, Birmingham Business Journal outlined what sounded like a cocaine-addict's business plan, meant to ensure that there is a Five Guys next door to every single living human on the planet, but as there's currently only one Woodside-adjacent location, I assume this wacky economy gave the administration pause to put down the blow for now.

As a professional contrarian, I'm sometimes put off by superlatives, and Five Guys does all it can to remind you that they are THE BEST.

The menu is simple—hamburgers and hot dogs, with or without bacon (with a "little" option for the kiddies), veggie burgers, and grilled cheese. Toppings are plentiful and free, and fries come in two sizes.

I ordered the grilled cheese, because I was afraid the veggie burger would have veggies in it. Mayo, lettuce, tomato, and freshfreshfresh onions, please.



Look! A vegetable! That's how you know this meal is healthy. Never mind that mayonnaise and cheese is arterial spackle; I have it on good authority that lettuce has cholesterol-neutralizing properties. My cardiologist told me that. Or maybe it was Paula Deen. I wasn't really paying attention.

There is something narcotic about this sandwich. Buttery, yielding bun; soft, mild, salty cheese; and crunchy veg. I know it sounds ridiculous to wax ecstatic about a grilled cheese, but cut me some slack. I haven't had a surprising front-stoop kiss from a nice boy in a very, very long time.

Overshare!

At Five Guys, it isn't really about the fries. They're a little overly brown for my taste, but that's tempered by the fact that they're served from a bulldozer. Quantity over quality, friends.



And now, with storm clouds gathering out other people's windows and work clothes bunching in uncomfortable ways, I'm jonesing for some 100% cotton and a brown bag of yum from FGBaF. Where there's coke in the business plan and heroin in the food.

Five Guys Burgers and Fries
585 Brookwood Village
Birmingham, AL 35209
205.414.8459

Today has had a certain je ne sais quoi, a mixture of serendipity and surrender that is unmistakably French.

In short, this Mardi is gras.

It started with an unexpected "Lunch?" text from JLB. Sacrebleu! One of my three favorite meals! We decided to hit up Chez Fonfon, where we discovered that today is, in fact, a holiday for les Français, a day when the population commemorates some sort of deadly battle, and also the forgiveness of traffic tickets.

And who should be there, sidled up to the long wood counter, crackin' wise with his lady sidekick? Mon père!

Quelle surprise!

He politely informed me that all the menu items were delicious, but that if I did not order the prix fixe Bastille Day offerings, he'd deny my existence for the rest of my days.

Either that, or I started to glaze over at the prospect of five courses (at LUNCH. INSANE.) and stopped being able to understand him through the foggy chorus of angels in my head, and he decided to pretend he didn't know me.

Also there was drool.

Apéritif!



Kir royale, a pretty pink blushing thing with a dainty garnish of orange peel. Just right for a dainty Southern girl who knows better than to indulge in heavy boozing in an afternoon hour. Or, in the absence of dainty Southern girls who have any sort of moral compass regarding liquor, for me.

Course 1!



Ah, yes, that's just right. Itty bitty tastes, perfect for my delicate constitution and fragile nature. A pretty fan of charcuterie; tiny tartine corners with olive tapenade and goat cheese/melty tomatoes, respectively, garnished with ribbony herbs; and a rotund little fig hugged by delectably thinly sliced prosciutto, cooked to salty heaven.

No wonder French women don't get fat.

Course 2!



Sainte mère! I'm supposed to eat that entire thing? Shrimp, mussels, tuna, snapper, and buttery toast with rouille floating in a warm, complex broth that tastes perfectly briny without a hint of fishiness?

OK.

It is here that I should note the most horrible of circumstances: Surrounded by tremendous food and kind service in a room full of hushed conversation, I pulled out my camera to capture every morsel. Battery? Dead. How do you say ggooddaammiitt!! in French? The iPhone tried to keep up, but it was no match for the texture and color on these plates. A vast frog-leg conspiracy, I fear.

Utterly sated, I leaned against the banquette and ...

Course 3!



Ooooouch. Thank heavens for yielding fabrics. This was cheese. I don't know what kind. I ate it. It was benignly ridiculous at this point in the meal, and for that I give it great kudos.

Photo? Hideous.

Course 4!



Seriously, uncle. I don't really do dessert. I didn't need to hoover this with any great speed.

But ... there are bright berries (not rendered by heinous photography). There is a flaky, buttery crust (not rendered by heinous photography). There is a perfect row of soft, creamy white rosettes (not rendered by heinous photography).

I was going to bring home the leftovers, but the waitress didn't think they had a box small enough for the remaining three bites.

And now, I am a cochon, full to my eyeballs, which are left to mourn the terrible images it has been left with.

But it is a holiday. I feel a responsibility to you, dear reader, to leave you with something that is both French and beautiful.



Ah, there. That's better.

Yesterday we discovered that LSis and Martin's little bundle of man joy is in fact a little bundle of girl joy. Surprise! What to do with such a bombshell?

Cover it up with a pomegranate margarita Big Gulp.



See that lovely frozen pinkness in the baby blue cup? Apropos, no?

TFin is much more civilized. He chose a Perfect Manhattan, courtesy of the tenders de bar at Chez Fon Fon.



To celebrate the birth of LSis and her little baby sex change, I ordered baked mussels.



So garlicky and crunchy, and just exquisitely cooked. I was worried those tiny slimers would go rubbery under the heat, but they were perfection. And I only burned my arm on the dish twice.

Then the salmon with a field pea relish and a sauce I'd have licked off the plate if I didn't have scruples. Or thought TFin wouldn't have elbowed me in the ribs. The salmon was too salty, but otherwise this was just what the summer ordered. Frank Stitt knows what to do with a pea, yes he does.



LSis had the croque madame, a griddled ham and cheese sandwich with an oozing fried egg and a mound of pommes frites. I had a crisis of focus, apparently.



For dessert, the lemon meringue, which the baby Jesus took a break from moderating the crisis in the Middle East to bring to me.



That lemon center is so divinely rich, and the meringue was thick and sticky and charred and the whole thing was, well, deadly probably.

But my arteries didn't mind. They were busy contending with this,



which I could (and did) eat by the pound. Truly. I was all, "Garçon! More butter buckets, s'il vous plaît!"

And now I am off to enjoy this stunning weekend, full of sweating and gasping for breath in the oppressive, hellish, I'm-taking-it-personally heat. If I don't survive, someone make sure J learns that linoleum isn't life-threatening. Godspeed.

In the void of new insight (oh, except for this: I'm watching closely for signs of my eyes turning pink. I broke out the sandals today, and the legs show all the classic symptoms of albinism), I bring you this:





Kadoma tuna from Jinsei—crispy rice topped with spicy tuna, avocado, jalapeños, finely chopped scallions, roe, and sesame seeds, then drizzled with a thick, sweet sauce.





It's a textural masterpiece, though sometimes that rice will lodge in your molars and you'll spend a hell of a time digging it out in a most unladylike fashion.

What? Just me?

I could absolutely eat that spicy tuna with a spoon. Luckily, the Japanese eschew most utensils, making shoveling all that much easier.

It's best followed by this. Because hamachi nigiri





is why I get out of bed every morning.

Look what TwinFin did! (Read about it here.)



OK, yes, I'm stalling. Last Monday I told the Twitterverse that I was completely off my rhythm that week, and the feeling persists.

Plus I just took a break to determine the source of my you-have-an-e-mail ping! and discovered this in my inbox. Apparently chronic loneliness makes you fat and ill. "Lonely people feel a hunger," sayeth the researcher for whom English is apparently a second language. What a shame. And after Cher wrote us all that lovely song, too.

Know what else is making you fat? This guy does.

I couldn't resist submitting this bit of loveliness, courtesy of Mafiaoza's:



macaroni and cheese with jalapeños and gorgonzola, deep-fried and served with vodka cream sauce (for dipping, natch).



Of course I didn't eat that. I have standards.

(Note: That last bit was a lie. I did eat it. I have stretchy pants where my standards should be.)

Bye, y'all.

According to Google, "Birmingham, Alabama, restaurants" yields 16,600 results, but there's NOWHERE TO EAT. Conversations about where to dine in the Woodside and its environs reach epic proportions. They tend to go something like this:

K: Where do you want to eat?
LSis: I don't know. Where do you want to eat?
K: I don't know, either. Nothing really sounds good.
LSis: I know, but if we don't decide, MJ is going to want Chinese or something.
K: Ew.
LSis: I know.
K: I mean, I guess we can go to [half-hearted suggestion].
LSis: No, last time we were there MJ threw up/fell asleep/forgot to tip. It just sucks because you're a vegetarian.
K: What?! We can eat anywhere! I can find something to eat no matter where we go.
LSis: Not true. It's always your fault. And you never come up with any ideas.
K: What about [Italian]?
LSis: Too expensive.
K: What about [Thai]?
LSis: Too far away.
K: What about [Greek]?
LSis: Too crowded.
K: Skrewit. Let's just go to Los Arcos.

Yes, that's right. I valiantly offer choice after choice, and LSis cruelly shoots me down at every turn.

It's my story. I get to be the hero.

But the other night I was driving home in The World's Largest Rental Car (fortuitous because I suspect it could pull double duty as an ark, and the Woodside weather report had read "downpour with a chance of soddenness" for the past three days), feeling sort of post-work starey and stunned, when I had this text conversation:

K: It smells like Doritos nachos outside my office. [Ed. note: Don't judge me.] Is that weird?
LSis: Yes, very. At the old ciau if you want to join.
K, somehow interpreting, through highly honed powers of sibling interpretation, that this means "I am at the new restaurant that now occupies the space where Café Ciao used to be": Oh really? [Ed. note: I am a perfectly useless texter.]
LSis: Yeah house wine 3 dollar house wine
K, wondering just how long little sister has been hitting the bottle: I'm two minutes from there! [Ed. note: No, I do not know why so exclamatory.]
LSis: Ok see you soon

God, we're interesting.

The aforementioned two minutes later, I found a parking spot for TWLRC and went into Bambinelli's. I was hopeful, because although Ciao was an acceptable joint with a sunny patio, the food was always more wilted-lettuce-and-warm-wine than one would hope.

I found MJ and LSis, sitting alone in the large dining room next to a fire, after side-stepping the too-eager hostess. They were alone, which perhaps explains why she greeted me as though I were Publisher's Clearing House.

The Js were just finishing up a plate of mussels, and as I sat down their meals arrived. I rushed to order, then sopped up fiery mussel broth with crusty bread while I waited.

Seconds passed before my green salad with house dressing arrived. The dressing was good—not transcendent, but with a good proportion of oil to vinegar—and though things seemed generally fresh, the greens tasted a little dirty and the tomatoes were well past peak season. Restaurants also seem to think there's some vote of confidence to be had by serving salad in chilled bowls, but I always wind up feeling like I've been served one of 20 salads in the back that have been sitting in the cooler for who knows how long.

But no matter, because before I had the chance to eat six bites, my pasta fagiole had arrived.



Fusilli, white beans, and spinach. LSis had ordered the same thing, but the portions seemed off. Like the chef had made one double-serving pot, then served her 65% of the solids. She had pasta with a light sauce, I had noodle soup.

That said, it was really very good—warming on a rainy night, and cozily satisfying. It was missing a little kick, so we procured some crushed red pepper flakes to wake things up. A smidge on the salty side, but otherwise quite nice.

To follow, LSis and I ordered the chocolate cannoli to share.



Blech. The shell was almost fork-impenetrable, and the cream tasted like store-bought frosting, only ... grainier. I had maybe two bites before abandoning ship.

I cleansed my palate with the remainder of the half-carafe ($7.00!) of house red I'd procured before my butt hit the booth. It was an Italian red, we overheard the waiter telling another table, and was completely palatable despite its affordability. It was round and robust, with a smooth hint of low price point. It was also served by a second waiter, as ours was adorably too young to serve alcohol.

My main bone to pick with Bambinelli's is the atmosphere. Little things are off, but that could be Soft-opening Syndrome: The gas fireplace has no logs. The lighting is up too high (a nod, I think, to the older clientele). The soda fountain—complete with hand-washing station, ewgross—is dead center in the dining room. The butter is served in a ramekin, but it comes as pats, cheesily still wrapped in single-serving Land O'Lakes foil.

Regardless, I'll definitely return. There are plenty of other pasta and pizza options to try, and I have the second half of that carafe to get to.

Verdict: Pasta pleasant, pace sprinty, price pleasing. Make sure you have dessert at home.

Bambinelli's Italian Café
2031 Cahaba Road
Mountain Brook, AL 35223
205.871.2423

---

OK, deep breaths: It's confession time. In the spirit of resolutions and new beginnings, I admit the following.

1. I don't fight the battle of the bulge. The bulge launches a potato-chip offensive that I eye for whole seconds before gleefully surrendering. Then I take a nap.

2. I despise diets, scales, and women who claim "chasing around after the kids" is all they need to stay trim.

3. When I took off for Thanksgiving break, my doctor told me to "have a nice time. Maybe find a treadmill."

4. I don't like doctors with penises. It's a sexist bias, but I stand by it.

Don't get me wrong—I'm certainly not going to be cast on "The Biggest Loser" anytime soon. I don't have the mass or the motivation.

BUT I may or may not have gone to attend to some business last night and cracked the toilet seat in half.

I share this with you, and the online community at large, not out of some misguided sense of self-deprecation or shame, but because it's DAMN FUNNY.

I defy you to name one other person this has happened to. Besides maybe Mama Cass.

It is a universal truth that a bleary morning's avant-garde fashion statement is the afternoon's sartorial question mark. Note to coworkers: "Ooh! Look at you!" does not a compliment make. Particularly when accompanied by a look of confusion usually reserved for listening to Sarah Palin try to explain the military-industrial complex.

That what-the-hell-am-I-wearing epiphany, brought on by an angry encounter with the ladies' room full-length mirror, was only one in a long line of startling realizations yesterday. Sometimes there's so much lesson-learning in my life that I fear I'm part of some elaborate hidden-camera after-school special. "This week, on 'K Falls Down': K discovers that the disquieting tingling in her extremities is directly linked to her tights cutting off blood circulation."

So what's a self-pitying sausage to do? If you've been dutifully graphing my moods and culinary proclivities, you'll find a crowded square at the intersection of Cranky and Mexican Food (although frankly, a disturbing number of roads in my life lead to Mexican food).

We received our menus, at which point I was disappointed to find everything spelled correctly, and therefore not spirits-lifting.



The menu at La Paz has changed a lot since the last time I was there, and not necessarily for the better. It used to be that La Paz was the place to go for flavor combinations you couldn't find anywhere else. Now the options are truncated and the platings are far less inspired. White plate, white tortillas, lettuce topped with peaked tomatoes, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

The kitchen is a little stingy with the chips, too, though the red and blue versions in the mix are a nice touch. They're delicately salted and not greasy, but they look a little like they ran through a rock tumbler before they got to the table. With the jagged crumbs you can choose between a red salsa (OK, but a little too sweet) and green (tastier, but the consistency of water, which makes dipping a Sisyphean effort).



MJ ordered the cheese dip, which is inexplicably trough-size. Seriously, you can wash your feet in this bowl. It's nicely spicy and chunky with onions, but it created a rather Alice in Wonderland–like table with all the confusion in scale—tiny dental cups of salsa and handfuls of chips next to a vat of melted cheese (downside: the queso came out with a skin on it, which was less than appetizing and seems like a pretty simple fix).



LSis ordered the tortilla soup, a meaty broth swimming with avocado and studded with white-meat chicken and tomatoes. She proclaimed it good but also "super salty" (I believe that was prefaced with the prediction that it would give me an immediate coronary event) and she noted skeptically that the chicken tasted peculiarly "gamey."



I don't think it knocked her pants off (that's right. What good is having your socks off?), because I caught her eyeing my plate. I ordered the burrito gordo. Memo to Mexican restaurants: I'm sure that word has another connotation, one that implies that you're getting a lot of really great stuff, but I do not like having to request a dish that has the word "fat" in it.

You can have the more-to-love burrito with chicken, beef, or spinach, rolled inside a flour tortilla with guacamole, pinto beans, and sour cream. I chose the spinach, natch. When it arrived at the table, I was pleasantly surprised to see the pretty presentation, but less thrilled to find the tortilla smothered in extraneous cheese dip. NOT NECESSARY. I just ate a bucket of the stuff; my arteries can't take anymore.



Really, though, isn't that pretty? It's an enormous portion, accompanied by mundane refried black beans and some confusingly seasoned rice (it came out crunchy, with the distinct whiff of heat lamp about it, and tasted like ... teriyaki?). Still, that's at least two solid meals there, if not three. I doggy-bagged the heck out of it.



The service was cheerful and relaxed, if lacking a little something in the pacing. When the plates are the size of planets, you probably want to give people the opportunity to take breaks between bites before you pounce on them with the check.

LSis was delighted to discover that her first wimpy glass of Chardonnay seemed to only get more full as the night went on. MJ was bouncily giddy to hear the decidedly early-90s soundtrack overhead.

The highlight for me, because I'm not generally a beer drinker, was the crisply chilled and effervescently carbonated draft ale (bonus: thanks to that night's specials, it only cost $2.00). Well that, and I was relieved it was dimly lit. I still have no idea what I was wearing.

La Paz
99 Euclid Avenue
Birmingham, AL 35213
205.879.2225

Things that are harshing my buzz today:

1. The deathly pall that's descended over the office since the Chief sent out an e-mail announcing our meeting with the head honcho had (GASP!) changed times. People are liable to have a collective heart attack should she so much as sneeze, so everyone's muscles are cramping in this crouched-with-bated-breath position.

2. Weekend forecast: Freelance avalanche.

3. I recently discovered that my wallet's contents—copay receipts and an expired Blockbuster card—have no worth as currency.

4. A scheduled Sorry We Laid You Off; Here's a Quarter Inch of Wine! party in 45 minutes promises to be pained and sad.

5. Sometimes people who purport to be fiercely protecting their "values" put me on the outside. And even though raising the population in Judgment Town isn't my goal, it still makes me sad to see otherwise lovely people become snarly and insular.

(But! A coworker made me a CD, news from the vet's office says R has to lose no teeth—yay JLB!—and I found $0.58 I didn't know I had, so all is not yet lost.)

And it's a comfort to know that English as a Second Language and its corollary, The Confused But Well-intentioned Editor, can always make me laugh.



Someone tried to FIX IT! by turning "loes" into "loses," but I think the problem was purely a dyslexic one. I did appreciate the kindly accusatory tone: People fall down here. It's their shoes' fault. Especially because, without that warning, the likelihood that I would be one of those face-planted people is 100%.

Unfortunately, that accusatory tone permeated the meal, too. The general feeling of the staff seemed to be, "Why are you here, again?" We tried to explain that we were interested in lunch, but that only seemed to grumpify them more. Apparently the literal translation of "Can we get some more salsa?" is "Can we trouble you for a kidney?"

Strange, because the local.yahoo.com reviews say things like, "great staff" and "friendly wait staff" and "the atmosphere and overall feeling was intensely comforting." (Note: Oxymoron? I prefer my comforting to be more soothing, less intense.) I'm willing to wager that we just caught them on a cranky day, but the unappetizing combination of an inch of dust on the plastic greenery and the 20-gallon industrial tubs of margarita mix on the bar didn't appeal to me.

I've been disappointed in the food at Los Amigos before, but I was willing to give it another try. Purely based on adorableness, I wanted to order the Taco Salad.



It comes in a "flower" tortilla, you see. HEE!

But I lost control of myself and ordered the huevos rancheros at the last minute. It astounded even me. I did not see it coming.



And get this—it was delicious. The eggs had perfect runny centers, the rice wasn't greasy, and the sauce? Fire-breathing, just like I like it. It came with steamed flour tortillas, too, which was an unexpected—and welcome—twist. The softness soaks up the yummy yolks, as opposed to becoming chewy Frisbees, as the traditional fried corn tortilla is wont to do.

Verdict: Food spotty, service surly, floor slippery. Enter at your own risk.

Los Amigos Mexican Restaurant
3324 Clairmont Avenue South
Birmingham, AL 35222
205.324.5896

Frankly I'm disappointed in you, my readers. No one appeared to notice my mention of FIVE KILOMETER exercise-type activity. Full disclosure: I may have lopped off the end of the route in order to saunter back with J, T, and the Fatman. But there was running. That has to count for something.

Buoyed by the mind-clearing, back-breaking (a woman of my—aherm—proportions is not meant to pound the pavement) jog, I was feeling peckish and wilting. All of that calorie burning was hard. So I decided to follow the recommended training regimen for any star athlete: I want a-foraging for cocktails and carbohydrates.



It was the most incredible blue-sky day, and Jackson's has a wide, inviting patio with umbrellad tables and demanding menus.



Fine, then. If you insist.

The waiters are laid-back alternafolk, tattooed and pierced and fresh from the vintage-clothing store. They're all friendly, and they're almost without exception dog lovers. (I was once sitting there alone with J and had a waiter ask what he could bring me to drink. When I asked for a Diet Coke, he said, "Oh, no. I meant water for the dog." Expect to play second fiddle if you have only two legs.)

I do have my usual menu quibble with this place. They're massive sheets of paper, just fluttering in the breeze and waiting for the merest gust to send them sailing across the street. Every manner of cell phone, salt and pepper shaker, and artificial sweetener container finds new work as a paperweight. My other complaint? They don't have coasters, so sweating drinks put your legs in their very own climate zone. It's always cloudy with a 70% chance of rain under the tables.

Solution? Order a drink that doesn't require ice.



Or, better yet, make your own. JLB fell in love with the blood orange mimosas, but they no longer make them. So she orders a bottle of their finest (read: least pricey) bottle (read: four) of Champagne (read: sparkling ... something). Then she jets over to the adjacent Tria Market, buys a bottle of blood orange juice, and mixes her own. Look at that bubbly sunrisey blush.

I was feeling indulgent (there was RUNNING), so I ordered the portabella cheesesteak—basically the usual Philly sandwich with mushrooms in place of meat. L Sis, a staunch fungus abhorer, struggled to watch me eat it. I'm pretty sure this meal shows up in her nightmares.



It's not bad—I usually order it when I'm feeling expansive. And in the mood for melty cheese. I'd prefer a little less sauté on the mushrooms. I like them to still have some heft to them, as opposed to being waterlogged. The bread is just. too. much. And it pains me to say that, much as I adore my yeasty boyfriends. But it's an inch thick. It's like eating a nap.

Then again, it's really just a sideshow for these.



They're so good. I know they're fried and salted and taking up permanent residence in my cardiovascular system, but oh my yum. Yes, they're just run-of-the-mill frozen potatoes, but Jackson's has perfected the potato-to-crispy-outside ratio, and they don't drench the little tubers in salt.

They are universally beloved by all mammals. See?



Yes, R is wearing a sweater. He is a delicate flower. He also wins the award for Best Begging Technique, as it seems J doesn't even understand the table orientation (Psst! It's behind you.).

Jackson's is a tough call, because they have terrific outdoor seating, friendly people, and relatively reasonable prices. But the menu somehow manages to be textbook length with nothing to offer. You can stare and stare and stare at it, and you won't see anything jump out at you as a MUST-HAVE meal. The BLT is a little dry. The pasta is a teensy bit oily. The roast beef sandwich contains a questionable cut of meat. Even the wood-fired pizzas, a Jackson's claim to fame, suffer from strange flavor combinations or skimpy toppings. Things are just a bit off, or need better-quality ingredients to really sing.

But it's OK. We'll keep going back. As long as there are blue skies and French fries.

Jackson's Bar & Bistro
1831 28th Avenue South
Homewood, AL 35209
205.870.9669