Cafe Espanol/Rosa Mexicano

CAFE ESPANOL

Note before you read (I wrote this right away). John's comments have been added almost a month later. Just saying. If you have complaints, direct them to him! :) And I will promptly tell Caitlin about how much you all think her part of the blog is lame/boring/painful/etc.


Yes, it was a big culinary weekend for the Just Ate team. It's like the A-Team, only no one is pitying fools, and there will be no terrible movies made about our hit TV show a mere decade and a half after its been cancelled (Lord willing). Friday evenings are our favorite times to go out because we can unwind from the week and re-acquaint ourselves with one another and tiny, dead shrimp. Neil and Kate, our friends from Holy Cross, accompanied us on this evening's jaunt (for those of you who don't know, a "jaunt" is a "short, pleasurable excursion"...you can tell Cait's been reading her trashy paperback novels). We headed to Cafe Espanol in Greenwich Village (A Spanish restaurant in an area of the city named for the whitest town in Connecticut. This should be good). We arrived about 30 minutes before Neil and Kate so we sat at the bar to enjoy a cocktail (or two). I noticed that sangria seemed to be the most popular choice of dinner guests. What caught Cait's eye were the itty bitty mini-pitchers of Sangria that the bartender kept putting on the side of the bar for waiters to bring to various dinner guests. So when we were seated Kate and I ordered a pitcher. Neil made a face at both girls along the lines of "woah, slow down, ladies" because, I mean, they ordered a fricken' pitcher of booze. Apparently there was a big one because the passion fruit sangria that was put down in front of us was more than twice the size of the pitchers I had seen while sitting at the bar. If we were in Goldilocks and the Three Bears, this would have been Papa Bear's pitcher of Sangria. Caitlin was more in the mood for a Mama Bear sized pitcher of the tasty Spanish beverage.



Sidebar! Now, honestly. If you were to order a pitcher, you'd thing you were getting a pitcher, right? Caitlin, on the other hand, didn't realize that she had to specify "cute, tiny little pitcher." Plus, in a restaurant where the entire wait-staff speaks Spanish, if you ordered a "cute, tiny little pitcher," there's a good chance Pedro Martinez would walk out from the kitchen.



John ordered a mixture of fajitas - steak and chicken. Neil joked that I apparently thought we were at Applebees. I ordered seafood paella and Neil and Kate shared a tower of appetizers (apparently my non-conformist wife refuses to refer to them as "tapas") which included Champinones Rellenos (mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat and breadcrumbs), Tortilla Espanola, and potatoes in a Spanish sauce that I couldn't find when looking back at the menu! I can't comment on their food. Neil's on the back end of a fat spell, so I didn't dare try to take food from his plate. Kate notoriously eats substantially less than the rest of us, so when Neil pointedly asked if she wanted anymore, she indignantly informed him that she had had two helpings. As we delved deeper into a Kate-sized "helping," we discovered that she had eaten about 16 mini potato pieces, 3-4 mushrooms and a small piece of omelet.



John may question marrying me--I'm not a cheap date to feed! This has nothing to do with the rest of the blog post, but I'm not going to argue with the fact that Caitlin steal my money, when I'm in need, yeah she's a triflin' friend indeed, oh she's a gold digger way over time, that digs on me.

Finally, (she says "finally" like it took us awhile. In reality, I had two beers and was enjoying myself, unlike the sangria-hound who accompanied me to dinner, who after a glass and a half each of fruity red wine probably could have given GaGa a run for her money in a race from normalcy) Neil and John finished their beers so they could assist with a glass each of sangria. Again, I had two, but by then, Cait was seeing double, so she lost count at one. It was delicious but wow it was a lot! Cait got crunk. We definitely recommend Cafe Espanol. Caitlin recommends the miniature pitchers of Sangria. The service was efficient, the decor tasteful and the seating much larger than it appears when you first walk in.

Seeing as though we're supposed to be food critics, let me get us back on track for a second. As mentioned above, I had the fajitas. Overall, they were good, but nothing spectacular. The chicken was delicious. The steak was decent, except for one piece that was pretty darn tough (I had to spit it into my napkin, which was cloth. So sorry, Pedro Martinez, who probably had to deal with that in the kitchen.) Also, the fajita "pancakes" were very tiny...so I couldn't throw much meat on any one fajita. If they were a sangria pitcher, Caitlin would have been very satisfied. I'll go back, but next time I'm getting the tapas (or, as my mono-lingual wife would call them -- "appetizers").

ROSA MEXICANO

Sunday was John's birthday. July 18th! Rock on. To celebrate, our mothers came into the city and we again took advantage of Restaurant Week, visiting Rosa Mexicano in Union Square. It was so celebratory, in fact, that afterwards it felt like there was a Cinco de Mayo parade marching down my tummy. We got off the 4/5 at Union Square. For those of you not from New York, the 4/5 is a Subway line. Caitlin had no idea what I was talking about when I said 4/5 until a month after we signed our lease. When we got to 18th street we didn't know which way to turn. I thought John had looked it up! She's shocked that, while battling a hangover on a 95-degree day, and rolling out of bed about 20 minutes before our mothers arrived, I didn't have the sense of mind to HopStop the restaurant. I didn't realize I was responsible for putting together my own birthday lunch. (Hey! Interjection! I planned the whole weekend! sort of...) All I knew was the restaurant was located at 9 E18th St. The first building I saw was 119. Sunday was 95 and humid (like almost every other day last month). I had blisters, sweat and a building annoyance (which has been building for about, umm, twenty six years). But I smiled anyway! No she didn't. Luckily it turned out to be only a block and a half away. Lucky for me...she could only complain for a block and a half! My husband, the sweetheart.

The restaurant was absolutely beautiful inside. On the left, when you walked in, was a wall with a gentle waterfall flowing down it. And jumping out of the waterfall were either little Greg Louganis action figures, or clay salmon...I forget.

We sat in the rear room, which was a big room with skylights (I'm no architect, but I'm not sure that when the entire ceiling is a window, you can characterize it as "skylights"...but who am I to judge? Oh, right, a judge), making it bright and inviting. You know what else was bright and inviting? The house where the child-devouring witch lived in the German classic "Hansel and Gretel". But I digress.

We were led to our table, which was next to a young couple and their two-year-old son. He was gnawing on a nectarine and grinning at us with his huge cheeks. I was in love. It made me want a puppy. At one point he threw his plastic green sippy cup. John heard something fall but didn't hear from where. He bent down and saw the plastic and asked his mom, "Did you drop this?" My mom and I burst out laughing as Joan commented that she "had given up sippy cups." John turned beet red as he realized it was in fact a sippy cup and not a Nalgene bottle. That's not why I was red! I get flushed when I ingest enchilada sauce. Lies.


Our three course meal started out with Joan and I ordering the guacamole, which they made at the table. My mom had chicken flautas (of which she gave me one because I'm the one in the family who eats all things spicy!) (hence why she married such a spicy fellow) and John had the soup (it was a spicy soup). This came out in a (spicy) bowl with (spicy) pieces of (spicy) chicken and (spicy) tortilla strips, sans soup. Literally, no broth. John and I looked at one another (I thought it was a moment of passion, Caitlin was just confused), until another waiter walked up and poured broth into the bowl. I had never seen that before! A Mexican busboy? Really?!

By the way, the soup was PHENOMENAL. I'd go back just for the soup, even if there weren't little Greg Louganis's all over the walls.

Everyone else had chicken quesadillas, while I had steak tacos. The waiter laughed at the three orders of chicken quesadillas. I then laughed back when I noticed the rat tail hanging off the back right corner of his head, slung over his shoulder like a piece of spaghetti being eaten by a toddler. Usually a chicken quesadilla covers half the plate. This was one whole plateful. Some cows (or "vacas") had some serious work (or "trabajo") to do for the restaurant (or "restaurante") to serve so much cheese (or "queso") Definitely could have shared! My steak tacos were do-it-yourself endeavors. The steak came in a hot skillet (that's what Cait used to call me before we got married) with a side of corn (that's what she started calling me after we got married), chipotle sauce, beans and cheese. The wraps were corn, while I prefer flour. :-(

I ate my tacos "naked," (we're trying to keep this family-friendly) which was no problem since I was already (in the nude?) full from the guacamole (oh, that).

There were two choices for dessert, (1) cheesecake with baked apples and caramel or (2) a chocolate cupcake with a chocolate hazelnut filling and rich chocolate sauce. The waiter asked if we wanted two of each. We, of course, said no. We then proceeded to go around the table and order. I ordered a cupcake. Cait mulled over her decision, then got the cheesecake. Cait's mom then ordered the cheesecake as well. Then, my mom took about a minute to decide. She even asked the guy which he would get. She ultimately decided on the cupcake. I looked at the waiter (luckily, the non-rat tail side of his head, so I could keep a straight face), and said "that was just a long-winded way of saying 'Yes, we'd like two of each.'" Only, I'm not sure how well he spoke English, because as soon as I got to "winded", he sort of took half a step back.
The cheesecake was round with a hole in the middle filled with caramel and little clumps of baked apples along the edge of the plate (kind of like me). Heavenly. (also like me) The chocolate cupcake was rich and unbelievable as well. (the comparisons just keep coming) John declared multiple times that we would be back here-a hangover cure apparently! Just writing this makes me want to go back...delicious.

Frankie and Johnnie's

A brief note before the commencement of this week's post: per a suggestion from Mrs. Saren Cassotto, a former SJC employee with Cait, our voices will from this point forward be differentiated by color rather than font, to heighten the sensation of your reading pleasure. (P.S.-John is Red, like the handsome newborn baby of the aforementioned Mrs. Saren Cassotto.)

It's Summer Restaurant Week(s) in NYC! This is (at least) a biannual adventure in our phenomenal metropolitan area. For $35.00, participants enjoy a three-course meal at some of the city's most illustrious, delicious and expensive [sans the Restaurant week] establishments. In other words, the sorts of places John won't take Cait to on a normal evening. Cait "decided" if we are going to pay $35 each, she is eating steak or seafood...I put "decided" in quotes, because otherwise it suggests that John had to break out from some sort of straightjacket of emotion in order to be willing to eat steak. For this reason, we gravitated toward the steakhouse choices and settled upon this restaurant on 37th St. between 5th and 6th Aves. My efforts to convince them that I am the namesake "Johnnie" went unnoticed.

We walked in about 20 minutes early for our 7:15 p.m. reservation, but the hostess immediately sat us. Well, after it took here a minute to find "D'Ambrosio" on the reservation list. Just saying "D'Ambrosio" wasn't enough. I had to specify "John" to help her out. But I don't blamer her. I have a feeling that, when I realize a glass of cabernet sauvignon is waiting for me at a dinner table, I slur my speach a little bit, so she was probably looking for "Dan Brosio's" reservation. It was only about 1/3 full-seemingly more of a business luncheon or pre-theater/post-theater location because of its prices and reputation. I found out about an hour before we left for the restaurant that it was named one of the best restaurants in America in 2004. This was a tall order. In layman's terms: Imagine that you play one game in single-A rookie ball, then for your second game, you're somehow starting against the Marlins, a team that was phenomenal in 2004, but is still pretty darn good today. On our second "Ate Date" (as I've come to call them, right at this moment), we were called up to the proverbial major leagues. Thus, we took it seriously. The hostess led us to a round table in the corner, set up in a way in which we both looked out upon the rest of the restaurant. Just like Mufasa and Simba looking out at their kingdom at the beginning of The Lion King, I had to sort of calm Caitlin down and explain to her what was going on, and where not to go, and who not to stare at. Not sure if John paid extra for this touch! John, most certainly, did not. Other than a family of out-of-place tourists in t-shirts and a raucous table of middle-aged couples, and the one table of newlyweds who looked like deer in headlights for being in such a classy joint (I wonder who that could be), the restaurant had a Good 'Ole Boys feel about it. John, looking 18, had the "boys" part down, but not the "good 'ole".

The bread bowl was an assortment of goodies, including seeded crackers, sesame sticks, rolls of all sizes and focaccia with grilled onions. Caitlin did miss one thing: there was a piece of garlic bread, which I wanted and didn't share with her. But I should have, because it wasn't that good. The flavor was fine, but the bread's texture was inconsistent. Also, why would a classy restaurant give breadsticks in its breadbasket? I never understood that. I'm sitting there, trying to be romantic (key word "trying"), and Caitlin's CRUNCH-ing was drowning out the expletives being spewed by the "good 'ole boys" two tables away. Also, they gave us just butter--I'm much more of an olive oil girl, but I didn't complain. I hope she means that literally, not figuratively. If she in fact were an Olive Oil girl, I would fall well short of being a Popeye guy. I ordered the Sauvignon Blanc (always my first choice wine) and John ordered a Cab Sav, of which Caitlin lacks the cultural stamina and palate to enjoy.




First course: Lobster cake for both of us. It was either that, a salad, or "house smoked salmon." Restaurant week is not about salads. In fact "Just Salad" doesn't even participate in restaurant week. If you go to a restaurant during Restaurant Week and order a salad, you're simply using whoever is paying, whether it be yourself or somebody else. It's like going to Rome and feasting on Domino's Pizza. You are presented with an opportunity to remove yourself from your element and enjoy the festivities, and you have to take it. Skip the lettuce and go with the lobster. The small Asian twenty-something at the table next to us ordered a salad. To the dweeb she was with: if she didn't go home with you, you got used.



The waiter seemed strangely surprised that the plates would be hot. He warned us of this as he shook off his hands in obvious pain, and he said, in a Russian schoolgirl sort of way, "Ooh, this plate is sooo hot!" Our initial thoughts that he might have been a spy were quashed by his incredibly wimpy pain tolerance. Imagine how that interrogation would go:





CIA Agent: "Are you a spy"


Waiter: "No"


CIA Agent: "Joe, go get a washcloth out of the dryer."


Waiter: "Noooooo! I'll talk! Mother Russia wants to let it all hang out at a trendy coffee lounge in Tribeca and explain to hipsters that it is so NOT cool to dress like you were born in an Eastern European ghetto. Does this mean my skin remains at room temp?!"


A lobster cake is what it sounds like-crabcake with lobster. It came sitting on an orange sauce (not the flavoring, just the color) and had large chunks of lobster meat (there was definitely more lobster than cake), mixed with corn and other assorted vegetables. Delicious! However it was cooked held the heat in very well...every bite, right up to the end, melted in our mouths. The, in true Caitlin fashion, all of the excess sauce was collected on a square inch of the plate and subsequently spooned into her mouth. She does not let unidentifiable condiments go to waste!



On a side note, I almost laughed in one waiter's face (we were being served by at least 4). As he was picking up the empty plate from my first course, he took a half step back, looked at me and exclaimed "OOPS! I touch!" Then he walked away, leaving me unsure of how to react. But because his English was as broken as the heart of anyone whose ever recorded a country album, I held in my cackle as best I could. Then, just as the words "OOPS! I touch" were coming out of my mouth during my explanation to Cait, the waiter again appeared at the table, removed my fork, and placed a new one down. Gotta give the guy a gold star for inadvertently admitting that those "Employees Must Wash Hands" signs really mean nothing, especially if a light brush of a waiter's fingertip requires the delivery of a newly-sterilized utensil.

I said before, if I'm paying one price, I'm going all out, so for my meal I got the surf and turf. (Don't let Caitlin fool you...unless we're buying milk or clothes, I can usually turn my wallet upside down after spending money, and nothing will fall out.) (Ok time for a Cait interjection. An empty wallet means we went out to a bar with friends (read Neil, Drew and Kate), Cait had one drink with Kate, went home at 12, while John woke up after coming home pantless and ringless at 4 a.m. finding his wallet mysteriously empty. So whose fault is this empty wallet?!) This dish was described as "petit filet mignon and shrimp scampi." Every shrimp scampi I have ever experienced included a heaping portion of linguini and olive oil. So when my filet arrived topped with one butterflied shrimp (for all the guys reading this, please note that this is not some sort of genetically enhanced insect-fish being; it's just a shrimp that is sliced down the middle). Despite the tiny helping of shrimp (this was like the Gary Coleman of shrimp...tiny and dead), the dish was out of this world. I asked for it medium/medium rare. On a side note, I found it hilarious that Caitlin managed to order her steak to be cooked across two-fifths the spectrum (rare, medium rare, medium, medium well, and well done). The waiter was equally amused, as he gave her a short glare that said "this is not Dallas BBQ, you're not getting this steak for around 9 bucks", followed by a complacent shrug.



The steak definitely came out very medium rare (that's like calling something "very average"...she means that the steak was red), but that was okay with me. It had a light seasoning and despite the fact that usually I cover everything with steak sauce or hot sauce, this dish didn't need any other spice. (Thank goodness she didn't ask for Frankies hot sauce).



John ordered braised beef short ribs with port wine demi-glace. It looked like a hunk of pot roast in a dark orange sauce. The meat fell off the bone and melted in our mouths. Literally, I barely had to chew, which is also why I ended up eating way too much. Very little effort was needed for me to introduce these ribs to my ribs. Yes, I never let John go through a meal without trying (or stealing) multiple bites. During one sip of wine as he spaced out on me for a moment, I stole the piece of meat he had just cut. It took about twenty seconds and few confused looks at the plate before he looked over at my guilty grin. I do this thing where, if part of the way through a meal I find the "best" bite, I put it aside and save it for last. I did that last night. Caitlin managed to eat it while I wasn't looking. When I realized it was gone, she just looked away and started whistling, the way Bugs Bunny does when he's in disguise and Elmer Fudd walks by.

There were two choices for dessert on the Restaurant Week menu: Key Lime Pie and Chocolate Mousse Cake. We got one of each--hey this is why I married him, he lets me eat off his plate! By "lets" she means she does it when I'm not paying attention (see above).



The pie had a cream topping that had no flavor. It tasted like eating cold. (Is anyone else imagining a tapas plate called "Frio" for the trendy and weight-conscious?) Overall this experience was wonderful. I ate my way through Cape Cod over the past weekend (I will try to blog about a few of those this week, time permitting!). So, naturally, what should I do the first night I go home, but stuff my face with three courses of fish, meat, and mousse? It was so wonderful to be home again with my husband, enjoying wine and hearing about the kooks he met on his day at jury duty. (My faves: (1) The potential juror who said he had been convicted of grand larceny auto and criminal mischief in 1990, and then, to the question "has anyone ever been in law enforcement?", responded "Yes. In 1990." and (2) The man who looked at a criminal defendant, raised his hand, and told the judge "I've already made up my mind about him.")



Overall: Definitely check this place out during restaurant week (which goes until next Friday), because the prices are lower than usual (Cait's Shrimp and Turf is usually $52 on its own). To conclude, I want But, if you got the dough, go before a show! (that poorly executed Johnny Cochran-ism is a shout out to Lindsey Lohan just hired Robert Shapiro (O.J.'s other lawyer) to represent her misgivings, misdeeds, and Miss-America-on-crack routine, from now on.

Steamers Landing: Cafe on the Hudson

Seeing that we first posted on Thursday, we had to start our adventure on Friday evening (albeit begrudgingly during the Mets game)! Just as it took us ten months to bring this idea to fruition, it took us ten months to visit the restaurant 33 floors below us in our own building. We arrived around 8:00 p.m. to see a couple with their baby asking for a table before us; they were told it would be an hour wait, so they rolled their eyes and took off down the river walk.

Well, by 8:00 p.m., even after three snacks since arriving home from work, Cait is "famished." With all her complaining, you would have expected her to be battling locals for a bag of rice on the outskirts of Mogadishu. Luckily, apparently for no other reason than that we didn't have a small child who ran the risk of annoying Steamers' patrons with screams for breast-suckling, we were told our wait would only be about 15 minutes. Caitlin's symptoms of an oncoming distended stomach could be halted! If we had wanted to sit inside, we could have been seated immediately-but we were on the water-who wants to be inside?? [And, apparently, who wants to sit a couple with a baby?!] The hostess was very pleasant -- COUGAR ALERT -- and directed us straight to the bar. She clearly became John's new best friend. Caitlin had an amaretto sour, which, as hungry as she claimed she was, might as well have been fed to her through an I.V.

Oh, and the drink prices...kind of expensive. An amaretto sour and a Kettle One and soda ran us about $19. If more people threw away money like that at Church, we'd have bought malaria nets for the entire Southern Hemisphere, not to mention Cosby-like sweaters for all the Catholic schoolchildren in India by now.

Only about five minutes later the people on the list in front of us had bolted so we were seated. John overheard the maitre d' asking the bartender if those girls in front of us had paid, to which he responded no. So the "Mooch factor" at this restaurant was much higher than anticipated. For those of you who don't know, a mooch is like a leech, but instead of latching onto your epidermis and sucking blood, they latch onto your life's experiences and manage to utilize any and all resources (food, drink, cable, air conditioning, wedding gifts) you have lying around. Basically, a mooch is a modern-day version of a bandit on the Oregon Trail. Only he won't give cholera to half your wagon.

Our table was outside. On our way in, we noticed that the outdoor table area was surrounded by about 5-foot high clear, plastic, scratched-up plexiglass separating those who like to eat and the Jillian Michaels-wannabes who infest Battery Park City. I could definitely relate to the loveable chubsters on "The Biggest Loser" as I wolfed down a steak and fries when, 10 yards away, every shirtless man with abs and sports-bra'd woman with boobs who resides in lower Manhattan ran by, in hopes that they would meet and go home with one another from some over-priced lounge later that night.

The prices for the restaurant were average for an establishment that, given its location, at least appears to be upscale. Entrees ranged from $15-$35, but the ambiance made the extra pennies definitely worth it (with the waves crashing in the background behind all the eye candy jogging by, I felt at times like I was eating on-site at one of those exercise programs they show on Fit TV around 7 a.m.). The crowd tended to be on the older side (they probably figured all the women going through menopause couldn't possibly bring crying babies in to dine), and other than two people that still looked sweaty from running, in their spandex and still wearing their IPods, people were dressed a bit nicer than Upper East Side pubs (not that there's anything wrong with that).

We started with Fried Calamari, which came with two dipping sauces-a spicy marinara and a sweet chili sauce. Delish! The breading was light, so we didn't feel like our insides had been coated with grease before our entrees arrived. I ordered the Sole en Casserole, translated to a sole baked with a crabmeat stuffing and spinach in a light cream sauce, delivered right in that hot, oval baking dish. It too, was very light. John ordered the New York Strip Sirloin Steak with shoestring fries. Yes, boring...but I didn't want to be too adventerous for our first posting. Cait's was cheaper and much better. John ordered his steak medium. The first few bites were medium, but the rest was overly well done. The fries were thin, which Cait preferred. She apparently feels the need to point this out despite the fact that the menu specified the potatoes were of the "shoestring" variety. John had a few bites of mine and I think he wished he ordered that, too. As I too am writing on this blog, I concur. I guess at a place called Steamers Landing you should go with the fish! The dessert options looked tempting, at least on paper, but Caitlin made the call, and John got no cake.

The service was fine...nothing noteworthy. I don't even recall if the same person came over to our table more than twice. One thing that annoyed me: The waiter pulled out a guilt-trip face when he came over to our table to see if we wanted drinks and he just then "noticed" that we'd already paid for them at the bar while we waited for our table. He easily saw the two drinks on our table before he walked over, and certainly saw them before he started to ask us for our drink order. To seem nice, and to give him a glimmer of hope that our bill would increase beyond just two entrees and an appetizer, I told him we'd hang onto the wine menu. Because of his little look of "shock" that we had gotten drinks at the bar 5 minutes before, I didn't want to order any wine, just for spite. We were each trying to get the upper hand on the other, and I was sure the Kettle One and tonic was big enough to lead me to victory over this guy. But thirst conquers all...And although the waiter won, there's something bittersweet in the fact that he had to serve me the glass of wine.

Our food came out hot and quickly, which are both strong in Cait's eating world. Too easy, BUT I promised Cait that, at first, I'd keep the jokes family-friendly.

The restaurant is certainly worth a visit for the view and a chance to sit outside in the beautiful summer air. But order the fish!

We're STARVING!!!!!!

Welcome everyone to the newly created John and Cait blog!! [See Footnote 1, below.] As most everyone who knows us and visits this blog may guess, its name is a product of John’s undeniable creativity. I thank those people who were privy to the creation of this blog before today and who guessed the same for their faith in my (Caitlin’s) humor.

We plan to begin a journey through greater-New York’s culinary landscape, with you firmly secured in the sidecar of our motorcycle of life! The idea for this blog originated on a beach in St. Lucia during our honeymoon in August 2009. But like all good college graduates, we learned and perfected the art of procrastination and Flip Cup. We have experienced some amusing culinary adventures over the past ten months (Have we been married THAT long?!?), but their details have been lost in the depths of our minds, somewhere near the Pythagorean Theorem and the conjugation of Spanish verbs and Pabst Blue Ribbon residue. So for these reasons, we will put those events behind us, push the residue aside, and start anew, a la Abby Sunderland, if she attempts to circumnavigate the globe once again, or Kate (sans Jon). Where we plan to go is still TBD. As most of you may know, and the four strangers who are led astray via an errant Google search will find out if they get this far, we are one couple that simply cannot make a decision – much like Joe Lieberman and his political affiliation.

We hope you enjoy this as much as we do and find it the slightest bit entertaining, or at least read us while you’re bored at work and after you have exhausted all the updates on your Facebook newsfeed.

Ciao,

John

Slainte,
Cait

FOOTNOTE 1 IS RIGHT HERE ------->
This being a collaborative effort between a husband and wife whose personalities differ more than “Parent Trap” Lindsey Lohan (Cait) and her current train-wreck self(John), our blog entries will forever be divided by font. Any entries by Cait will be in a boring, G-rated font. Any entries by John will be not only funnier than Cait’s, but in a font such as Courier New, which John became intimate with in college when his ability to philosophize fell just a few pages too short (or when he was rushing to get work done after hearing the hypnotic "click" of a Milwaukee's Best Light can in the distance).