I've decided not to give out the name of the restaurant we were at tonight for Dad's birthday. It's enough to say that when a waitress squeeze open your baked sweet potato herself, without even asking you if that's all right, it's time to eat elsewhere. Potatoes are personal things - baked potatoes, doubly so. It's like someone freely dipping their fingers into your bowl of soup. And who said I wanted my potato squeezed open anyway?
I ate the steamed shrimp, and I ended up taking the green beans and the potato home. I don't know if I can bring myself to eat the abused potato now.
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