dining

Mr. Speer and Mr. Slow on the road to the Hilton

It was 8:03 PM and I was pacing the office nervously. The Celebrate Brevard event had been going on for several hours and was scheduled to end at 9:00 PM. There were two complimentary tickets and a hotel conference hall filled with free food waiting for us at the Hilton, but Mr. Slow had yet to arrive.

Both Mr. DeCotis and Mr. Greenidge had already bailed, having fallen victim to acute cases of couchitus and improperattiritus, respectively. Even my girlfriend had been unable to make it, resulting in a brief but unfortunate phone altercation (I love you, baby).

Mr. Slow had come through and was now on his way to pick me up in the Mobb Deep Lincoln, but we were losing valuable eating time. Suddenly, my phone rang. He had arrived. I snatched the camera off my desk, only to realize I had forgotten to turn it off after clearing room on the memory stick earlier that evening. The batteries were almost completely depleted. No time for feeling sorry for myself. I was out the door and down the stairs in a flash.

After one wrong turn, we arrived at 8:16, leaving us just under 45 minutes to sample food from 40 Brevard County restaurants and vendors. We burst through the (already open) doors of the Hilton with the first few tables of food already in view through the archway at the other side of the hallway. In a blur, we rushed forward, totally and unintentionally bypassing the sign in table.

On the stage, two grown men and a child were cramming slices of key lime pie into their faces, battling for the Celebrate Brevard pie eating championship, but we had no time to gawk. Our hearts sank to see that many of the vendors had already begun packing up, supplies already depleted by the large, hungry crowd or, perhaps, simply weary of us and our paper plate-wielding, sample devouring ilk. Mr. Slow and I cursed our tardiness. Luckily, we discovered there was still plenty of food to be had.

One of the first dishes I sampled, a lobster and shrimp chutney, was really scrumptious. Meanwhile, on the stage a child in a chef’s hat was deftly spinning and tossing pizza dough. Pizza Boy passed the spinning dough through his legs, around his back, and up into the air like a Harlem Globetrotter, momentarily distracting me from the task at hand. As the crowd rose to their feet, roaring with applause, I began eating roll after roll of tempura California rolls. Was this a dream?

Next on the stage was Pizza Boy’s brother, Yo-Yo Boy. The MC asked for the “Free Bird” of yo-yo, joking, “Hey, can you do Walk the Dog?” The air was thick with a tension I sensed only Yo-Yo Boy, the MC, and I could feel. Yo-Yo Boy resisted the urge to perform an Around the World right into the MC’s face and the show went on. It was a valiant display of yo-yo dexterity, but his brother Pizza Boy proved to be a tough act to follow. I wondered if the car ride home (or to the next food festival, county fair, or Ellen Show appearance) would be an awkward one.

After only a few photos, my camera whimpered and closed its lens to sleep. I was only slightly disappointed because now I could focus on eating. I finished my second Nyquil cup-sized serving of Crab Bisque from Lafitte’s New Orleans Restaurant (located inside the Hilton) and searched the crowd for Mr. Slow to inform him he had to try it. That bisque ended up being my favorite dish of the night. There was something comforting about its richly flavored warmth and goodness. With each plastic spoonful, the crowd faded away. Suddenly, I was sitting in a comfy chair next to a crackling fire, all bundled up in a Snuggie™. For the first time all day, I had relaxed. Then Mr. Slow spoke to me and I was back, the chair, fire, and Snuggie™ disappearing back into the ether. “This bisque is good,” he said. We exchanged a knowing (yet totally masculine) glance. We were stuffed. It was time to skedaddle.

It was 8:40 as we waddled back to the Mobb Deep Lincoln with full bellies. In just thirty minutes we had feasted on lobster and shrimp chutney, Cuban shredded beef and chicken, sushi rolls, grilled mahi-mahi, fried rice, deli wraps, crab bisque, and five different kinds of pie. We cursed under our breath for not arriving sooner. If we had, maybe digestion would have worked its magic quickly enough for us to enjoy another round of gorging. All things considered, we both agreed the night had been a wild success. As we pulled out of the Hilton parking lot, the song Pizza Boy had used for his soundtrack played on repeat in my head. But when I woke up this morning the song was gone. What was that song?