Once upon a time, back when I lived in Northville, I went to this new chain restaurant called Noodle Bowl. I had the mushroom stroganoff and it was super yummy. I thought I saw one of my old exs with a pretty blonde wife and a new cutey-patootey baby. I played with chopsticks and talked with my mother, who had some sort of Asian noodley thing as only someplace called Noodle Bowl could serve. It was a good moment in time.
Until . . . five hours later when I was hurling up mushroom stroganoff. I puked stroganoff until there was no more stroganoff and then I puked some more. It was extremely unpleasant . . . and there was no sleep, as I recall.
When my brother heard about the incident, he said, "Hey, I did that too!" Thus the Noodle Bowl stroganoff conspiracy theory. Neither of us has ever eaten there since.
Until tonight . . . I don't know what it was, but desired to try it again. To get back on the horse. It had been long enough. So on my walk downtown, I stopped at the Noodle Bowl and ordered a small stroganoff. It was super yummy, just as I remembered. A bit too much cheese, but I'll know to order it without next time. And now we wait . . .
Why do I do this? I have no earthly idea. I could have ordered anything else on the menu (they even have things without noodles). But nooooo . . . I have to risk it, thinking as I'm eating . . . "Well, it doesn't seem to have any egg in it so it probably wasn't salmonella. Could be the cream base . . . maybe they put something in it that I'm allergic too. That would explain Dave getting sick on a different day. Hmmm, what spice could I be allergic too?" Gotta test the fates.
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