While dating the lady that I’d soon marry, we took in Kansas City one weekend, long ago. There was the art gallery, the zoo, Union Station and Liberty Memorial, and after dark we dined at a fancy, racy and decadent establishment named La Foo Frog.
The staff was mostly lesbians in tight tuxedos, the menu exotic. A Liza Minelli type singer crooned before a grand piano.
There was caviar on the menu, and neither of us had ever, had caviar.
For $250 I ordered the caviar extravaganza.
My future wife, thought caviar tasted like strong fish eggs, and only ate tiny samples of the best, but I loved caviar.
They had a huge plate with a dozen different kinds, and I can testify that like anything else in this old sin cussed world, the higher dollar the caviar the better it was. Over the evening, I cleaned up the entire huge plate.
On Monday morning I woke up with my right toe, swelled up to where I could barely wear my shoe.
I had gout, at age 42. It hurt something horrible for a week.
I’ve not had gout again since 2001.
I’m not geared for caviar, no more.
But at least I had a good nurse, you know.
my guts out.
