Breakfast at the Mandolin Cafe, one of many funky places
in the area that has free wi-fi: Bourbon walnut pie, rather
like pecan pie, only with walnuts, flavored with just a tiny
whiff of whiskey. This was matched well by a pale ale that
I'd not heard of (Full Sail was on draft but was off) but
that was pretty decent.
Then to the Ram: Harry, instead of his usual burger, got a
Cobb, which seemed kind of normal; Annie, instead of her
usual burger, got a meatloaf sandwich, which came topped
with fried onion strings: a good sandwich. My surf and turf,
an 8-oz sirloin, medium-rare as or... whoops, I asked for
extra rare but didn't get it, plus three rather overheavily
panko-crusted shrimp, was decent. I substituted Ram chips
for the normal potato. A pint of porter, chocolaty and
rich, was nice but not substantial. I should have had the
1-lb burger, as after all this I was still on the peckish
side. I called over the little blonde waitress and asked
for a supplemental order: the 8-oz burger, rare, followed
by a skinny IPA. I had thought of ordering a skinny blonde
but thought she might be insulted. The burger was fine and
came with more Ram chips (thick-cut house-made crisps);
the IPA was moderately hopped but well balanced. That was
finally enough food, so we went back to the house for a
snooze. I was wakened abruptly with the news that it was
time for the bus again. Tonight, the Yankees, with C. C.
Sabathia matched against some guy named Ian Snell. Perhaps
the public sensed what was going to happen, as the park
wasn't stuffed full. Harry had high hopes for this series.
Wrong-o. Snell got the visitors out in the first, with the
particularly propitious beginning of striking out Jeter;
but it was downhill from there. Carnage was the word that
came to mind. When it became 6-0, Harry and I left Annie
behind and went off to drown our sorrows. I had a Manny's
pale ale, a tolerable brew, not my first choice but what
was at the stand where we got Annie a hot dog; Harry had a
Chivas. By the time we got back to our seats (lovely ones
on the Terrace level), the score had ballooned to 9-1. The
Mariners' only run came from some rookie kid's first major
league hit, an impressive dinger but way too little way too
late. The kid had just been called up because Adrian Beltre
had sustained some sort of ouchish damage in the previous
night's game.
The game not holding our full attention, Harry and I went
wandering down to the first level, where the sushi parlor,
about to close up, sold me a Full Sail pale ale (pretty
nice) and an Ichi-roll, an insufficient amount of shredded
tuna tossed with quite a lot of srirachoid sauce and rolled
with too much cucumber with sushi rice and nori of course.
It was okay. As we were about to run off, I spotted a can
of Hapi brand sriracha peas, which of course I had to buy.
These are sort of like wasabi peas but with a sweet garlicky
hot pepper and vinegary (srirachoid) coating; not bad until
the bottom of the tin, where much of the acid lurked. Then
back to our seats for the 8th, which wasn't nice for us.
When the smoke cleared, it was 11-1, and we decided to
escape, and we got the last 3 seats on a bus that got us
home in jig time. That 11-1 turned out to be the final.
A Harbin beer beer at the house to drown our sorrows: this
is a Manchurian product that was reminiscent of a light,
slightly skunky German beer: Harry thought it was like St.
Pauli Girl.