Sister number 4 and I were planning a civilised Friday supper.
“I’ve never been to Bodean’s,” she said, wistfully. “I’ve been dreaming of ribs”.
The last time I went to Bodean’s I ended up with salt in my bra, I thought to myself.
“Sister number 4 is desperate to go to Bodean’s”, I texted Sister number 3.
“So is my boyfriend”, she replied, “Desperate to go. Weird”. A few minutes later-
“He just read over my shoulder: ‘does that say Bodean’s? What about Bodean’s? I’m up for that. I’m up for Bodean’s”.
And so it was arranged. To make it a party but avoid confusion, we roped in two people of the same name. I’m only dating one of them.
First, the sisters and I met my uncle in the Sporting Page. It was his birthday and he was remarkably chipper about it, the only insight into his mental state being the fact he tried to steal my phone when we left. Pre-gaming Bodean’s is a disastrous idea, as is turning up 45 minutes late, thus annoying the person you’re dating and the person you’re not in one fell swoop. We made up for it by ordering 12 shots as a starter.
There’s not a lot to say about the food here. The meat is great, the chips are average, I tried burnt ends for the first time which were good, I don’t like coleslaw... It is mainly fodder for Great Times: a raucous sing-a-long with the table behind us, watching Sister number 4 demolish a whole rack of baby back ribs and developing a new found and seriously incapacitating obsession with honey flavoured bourbon.
