by Ian Froeb
Once again we were scrambling to find a place to eat. Our intended destination was like something out of an Edward Hopper painting: The chef, in kitchen whites and striped apron, stood outside the restaurant's entrance on a Friday evening, gazing forlornly up and down one of the city's busier avenues.
"Nope," I told my wife. "I can't do it. Not tonight."
"Oh, please God, no."
It had been that kind of week. We needed a slam-dunk. Good food, good wine and the promise that the past five days would soon fade into oblivion.
Where do we end up? Do we find what we're looking for? Check back here tomorrow for the surprising answers.
You don't want to miss this one.