Chefs in the City…Well, Sort Of
Okay, let’s begin this with a disclaimer. It is in the city. But so many boats we’ve seen claim the mantle of freedom or being out of this world or someone named Sheila – and no one knows anyone named Sheila who lives in the city.
Yes, on the decks of…well..Seadeck you’ll be treated to three levels of glut. Sort of like the circles of hell, but, you know, the part before that.
Because we all know that this eve on a giant tugboat-cum-yacht serviced by those who have dedicated their lives to dill and white pepper is inherently immoral.
You might as well double down on that with a “striking cocktail bar” (though they do discourage actually striking people in a drunken sense of play) and donning your most pretentious – if slightly mouldy – Vinnies top hat and cram your gullet with those slimy things that usually produce pearls.
What we’re trying to say here is that clam-like sea-life inevitably taste like salty cured eyeballs and pearls are of inherent worthlessness.
But this is really all about illusion. You are not fancy. Pearls inevitably remind you of your racist grandmother. You do not know how to operate a boat or why there appears to be coriander on everything.
But for one night.
You can pretend.
In a context other than your living room filled with the ubiquitous growl of Clint Eastwood.