The Usual Suspects

Just down the street from here is the Shamrock. Which features on the last Friday evening of each month a seafood buffet. We had heard about this, and since all four of us like to eat food that we see, there was an overwhelming consensus that we should. See this seafood and eat it, that is. So we did. Last night. We being Colleen, Tammy, Sandy and yours truly. It was yummy. The clam chowder was outstanding. It was the creamy variety with roasted potatoes, not that weird
stuff with the tomatoes. There was also wine. And dessert. And smoked salmon. And cajun mahi-mahi. And these irresistible little biscuits with cheese and herbs baked right into them. And prime rib carved by a chef-looking guy in a white jacket at the end of the buffet. After two hours of forklifting I felt like a whale and wondered if there was a forklift on the premises to relocate me to the car in the parking lot. To the relief of my dinner companions, I did not voice aloud this particular wondering.
Nor did I ponder aloud to our most attentive waiter my thought that the only thing that
could improve the buffet would be to include a young, buff and scantily clad young man perhaps named Raul to peel the shrimp for me. I have difficulty multitasking employing restraint, so I indulged in the food and kept my thoughts to myself.