I’m at Pure Food and Wine, drunk, as per usual, and it gets to the point where I interrupt my date with “hold that thought.”  I can’t hold it anymore.  I lean in, asking him, “Where’s the bathroom?”  Even though instinct would have lead me to the answer… because there’s something about him that makes me want to lean in.  I love that as I type this, I can smell him in my hair.  God, I love that.  He asks the bartender, with his hand on the small of my back.  I listen, and on the walk toward the back, I repeat, “to the right”  as if it’s a yoga mantra that will bring me through to the next power move.  When I go right, I’m greeted, not with a bathroom man and A-line skirt of a woman—universal symbols—but with a photo of a cow on one door, and a bull on the other.  Shit, damn, this is insulting.  I’m at a vegan restaurant, where their idea of lasagna involves pine nuts and jicama instead of cheese.  I’m sorry, that’s like serving jello and passing it off as a chocolate soufflé. Um, sorry, what?  At this vegan restaurant, I’m left only to identify with a bull or a cow?  I mean, an asparagus spear and a blooming artichoke, maybe.  Overall, any of the above are a bad user experience.  I’m sorry, where am I?

Vegetarians, whether you believe it or not, are fat sows.  You wouldn’t think so given the whole vegetable thing, right?  No, they eat pasta, fried, and anything parmesan.  Yeah, right, falafel.  Fried chickpea balls.  They eat balls, call themselves vegetarians, and give you a narrow eye because you say “medium rare.”  That’s what I call, “blow me.”  I’m just sayin’.  This Fresh Foods invites its vegan visitors, a.k.a. fataterians, to pee in a room with a cow on the door.  There’s something just wrong with a raw food (we don’t exceed 118 degrees) restaurant with artwork of mallards, cows, and bulls.  "Yes, the animals we save are our heros."  Oh no she di-ant.  "So we place the art of our heros on the walls."  Okay, Mighty Mouse or Underdog, maybe, but "our heros?"  Excuse me while I go vomit some pine nuts.  And, the ladies room is a fcuking cow?  Talk about a complex!  Then, you’re there, kind of drunk in the bathroom, wondering how long you’ve been there because the drunk in you is in the slow reading group, and he might kiss your hand, so you better wash it while you’re in the cow room.  So you do.  That’s how much you like him.  Still, you refuse to eat and move toward the ham bar next door.  “Oh, Bar Jamon?  Yes please.”  Vegetarians now scare me.  And please, I’ve paid my dues.  As a vegetarian for nine years, I’ve been there and got fat on that.  Do us all a favor and use the pointy teeth God gave you.