It’s a little surprising I’m not seeing magenta after all the beets I’ve consumed in the past three days. Gina once told me she used to eat so many as a kid, her pee turned pink. And anyone who’s ingested a hefty quantity can attest to the scary color of the other kind of waste that eventually comes out.
Friday night, it was beet salad at the Circa 33 speakeasy. That’s the little cove hiding behind an assuming bookshelf down the hallway from the main bar. Find the false book with the keypad inside, type the secret code and turn the door handle to find your fun awaiting…
Saturday night, there were roasted beets on a platter, served high above the city on the 13th floor condo of Stephanie’s friends. Actually, the place was one of the women, Debbie’s, parents’ “pied-a-terre,” which I later learned had once been briefly inhabited by my own parents on an evening a couple years ago. Turns out my parents are friends with Debbie’s folks. What in tarnation?!
Sunday night, beet juice. After already cramming two hearty meals into myself that day, it was about all I could manage when I met Kristina at Canteen, the local hipster vegan joint. With a bit of carrot, ginger and lemon thrown in, it hit the spot. Then I arrived back at the apartment building and Stephanie presented me with a salad of arugula, Cougar Gold cheese and…pickled beets. Hey, it was delicious and I’d do it all over again.