Fifteen MinutesPosted: January 25, 2014
I worked tonight, after being off the past four days. Mini vacation! Not really, since my parents were here from before I got home from work Monday until yesterday afternoon. House guests aren’t exceptionally conducive to relaxation, y’know? But Abby loved every minute, especially our traditional Olive Garden dinner. Three years old and already complaining about how her food is prepared–her broccoli was disturbingly squishy, I’ll give her that.
But what I’ve been waiting for was coming back to the mall. Did I tell you they’re filming an episode of Food Court Wars here? Yup. I hadn’t heard of the show before, but the lure of the possibility of being on television drew all kinds this week. When Ian and I pulled into the parking lot this afternoon, we laughed and laughed at the masses in their ‘finery.’ The fashions this season are not, in my opinion, a good look for, well, most of the people around here. Boots and tights and someone save us.
All I wanted was to find out who was cooking what, and it turned out to be some southern-style cookin’ versus a mini-bistro. It smelled pretty good on my way to my kiosk.
What amazes me the most is the length of time they took for renovations: less than two weeks. The former occupant of the bistro’s location had been frying up meat for gyros for years and years. The other spot was a Chick-Fil-A, so I imagine it was much cleaner to start with.
Tonight was the last night of filming and the average Joe taste testing. Half of the food court was roped off for the tasters, and I watched them scamper by excitedly in their assigned groups for over three hours. I didn’t know any of them. I guess my crowd doesn’t care about Food Network.
The noise level crept up and up until it erupted into cheers and applause, only to die off shortly thereafter. Three more rounds of that, and the real hooting and hollering started. My fellow kiosk-minders and I looked at each other and sighed relief. There’s nothing worse than a mall full of people who aren’t spending a penny.
The fifteen minutes of fame were up, and the final bell was ringing. I hope the bistro wins. I’m not a fan of the purple.