This past weekend I booked a hotel room in the downtown Hilton for the hell of it.
Because I’m king of the Hampton Inn in Columbia, SC, I have a lot of Hilton points, so I cashed in a few for the stay. As an added bonus they put me on the “executive floor” with a great view of the city.
We headed up one floor to Nikolai’s Roof, to the completely empty bar and lounge area, save for one solo guy nursing a bourbon. A few people came in and walked around to check out the view, but that’s it. Based on a quick glance, the actual restaurant had a handful of tables occupied, but I didn’t get to thoroughly check out that area.
We weren’t doing a full meal, so we had some cheese and one appetizer. Cheese was good. They let us pick and choose a bit. It was served with honey with specks of real truffle that were appreciated.
My appetizer was something to see, having interesting flower garnishes. The dish itself was a huge portion of two large slabs of a tad dry pork belly confit, roasted brussels sprouts, and a blue cheese sauce. It was a bit all over the place – the sauce on the sprouts and the blue cheese sauce were somewhat unnecessary. It hit the spot, but just seemed an odd assembly. Between this and the cheese, I was actually somewhat satiated by this point.
We then took the exterior elevator twenty-seven floor down to Trader Vic’s, with one intention – getting mai tai’d. We were successful. They even gave us one last mai tai in a plastic cup for the long journey back to the hotel room.
mai tai’d |ˈmī ˌtī’d| - verb [intrans.] - to become drunk as hell on mai tai’s; I’m not sure where I got that rash, but I’m pretty sure it happened when I got mai tai’d last weekend
ORIGIN mid 20th cent., Trader Vic’s.
The going nowhere vacation was capped off with breakfast in bed, one of my favorite things in the world. My dad likes to talk about one trip when I was probably six years old and I called for breakfast while he was still sleeping. He woke up halfway during the order, just in time to hear, “…yes, and eggs please. I’d like orange juice if it’s fresh squeezed. My father? Yes, he knows I’m calling.”
Now that I’m looking at this photo, boy I hope those sheets were clean.