Nothing to See, Officer, Move Along
907 Houston St, FW. 817-336-2253.
Piranha Killer Sushi
335 W 3rd St, FW.
A D V E R T I S E M E N T
A D V E R T I S E M E N T
‘Round midnight last Saturday, after hitting the usual downtown stops and doing some gaming — craps, poker, dreidel (a.k.a. kosher craps), gin-rummy — I peeked into my wallet and discovered (“Holy shit!”) I was down to only a few bucks. A normal person would have said, “Oh, dear. I don’t have any more money left. Whatever will I do? (Sigh!) I guess I’ll just go home and crawl into bed.” Not me, Jack. I wasn’t done partying and, more importantly, I needed dough the next day for “grocery shopping.” Yes, that’s code for something. (Sunday. Football. Hello! Do I really need to spell it out?)
(Disclaimer: Except at racetracks, sports gambling is illegal in the great Republic of Texas. Last Call is merely joking.)
Getting my grubby mitts on cold, hard cash cheaply and, OK, probably illegally, wasn’t the problem. My dreidel rolls with me at all times. The main question I had was, where?
The answer, conveniently enough, was right under my nose.
Late night, Saporé regularly draws a ton of staffers from Del Frisco’s Double Eagle Steakhouse, across the street. Everyone knows Del Frisco’s employees make hella bank, and earlier in the evening someone had told me the restaurant was packed, 800 strong. I began licking my chops (but, I admit, not as bad as I would have had one of dem hot, juicy, glorious Del Frisco steaks landed in my lap out of the blue).
I walked into the groovy joint, moseyed on up to the bar, knocked back a couple, and then said to everyone and no one in particular. “So.” Silence. “Who’s got a little money to lose?”
Almost immediately, several Del Frisco staffers came up to me and gathered ‘round in a circle. A minute later, after the customary exchange of pleasantries, the dreidel was a-spinnin’.
We went on for hours. Some lost. Some won. One player came out smelling like a rose. A very expensive rose.
(Disclaimer: Except at racetracks, sports gambling is illegal in the great Republic of Texas. Last Call is merely joking — and he’s laughing all the way to the bank.)
Since Piranha Killer Sushi opened downtown a couple of months ago, the yokels have been goin’ apey over the joint’s sumptuous grub. Well, chef/owner Kenzo Tran’s baby’s got a lot more going for it than mayonnaise-infused clumps of rice topped by raw fish. For one thing, there are the mix-and-match vodka martinis, baby!
I don’t remember much of my liquid lunch there with my significant other last week, but just know that I did a lot of laughing, a lot of slurping, and when I got the bill, a little dance I like to call, “Thank you, Buddha, for not letting me get raked over the financial coals again.”
Based on notes taken by my date, one winner was the awfully named Sexytini (raspberry-flavored vodka with cranberry, pineapple, and lime juice, topped with champagne, garnished with an edible orchid). Another hit, reportedly, was the Seattle Bean (Vincent Van Gogh espresso-flavored vodka mixed with Starbucks coffee liqueurs and cream).
There’s been a lot of speculation over Tran’s possible next move. “Is he gonna open a Piranha in Dallas?” “I heard he’s looking at the old Mama’s Pizza on Camp Bowie.” Let’s just say I got the skinny.
Whether I can recall any of it is another story.
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