A Sunday Kind of Love

A Sunday Kind of Love

Whitney Houston is dead and it’s time for brunch. Sunday’s Fine Dining has been in Ybor for quite some time now and while we always talk about “trying it out,” we’ve never actually made it there. Today is the day. It’s a Sunday kind of love (I know, Etta Jones).

Valentines Day is Wednesday but if there are a few things I’m strong opinionated about, Valentines Day is one of them. Valentines Day and international adoption, what a waste. Flowers? They die. Chocolates? My recent sexual affair with My Fitness Pal isn’t going to allow for that.

We’ve got a coupon from Creative Loafing’s “CL Deals” so there’s no excuse anymore. We’re going to pretend to celebrate our romance a few days early, and we’re going to try Sunday’s. Sunday’s Fine Dining is unique in that it’s actually fine dining. Aside from Berninis, Acropolis, and Columbia, you don’t often think of Ybor City as hosting the well-to-do older crowd. But, then again, they come and they go, it’s not like they’re spending the night.

Just earlier today “Caucasian Friend A” who I will not publically disclose, was in a daze, playing with his phone, walking down towards 7th Ave. “Black Friend B” was also walking down the street, acknowledged him, and said “Heyyyyy,” only for “Caucasian Friend A” to mistakenly reply to him “I don’t have any money.”  Yep, that’s Ybor.

I wasn’t there. Thank God. I never know how to handle those awkward moments surrounding race where all I can come up with is laughing aloud. I am sorry “Black Friend B,” but that is just one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard. I’m just fortunate I’m not “Caucasian Friend A.”

So, back to Sunday’s. We’re here. Funny how a touch of elegance graces 7th Ave, when right down the road “Caucasian Friend A” is mistaking “Black Friend B” for a bum. His bad. White linen tablecloths, numerous conversations, and just when it’s quiet enough, occasional choruses of Van Morrison, Dave Matthews, and Otis Redding playing on the radio.

Eclectic art covers the walls and even I think this place is romantic. I like how their chalk board displays the daily breakfast booze specials, including White Russians. I don’t like a female’s  offensively long pony tail. The last time I saw one like that was in the movie Avatar. Ryan orders a Bloody Mary but the waitress never comes back with one. Fail.

Not that our waitress sucked, because aside from the Bloody Mary absence, everything was great, but a server’s slip makes me extremely nervous when dining with Ryan. Just this past Friday night, he was a real dick to some girl. Normally I would say “some poor girl” but she was a real dumbass. I won’t name the restaurant because I want them to advertise on the Sunday Meatball Chronicles some day, but she lacked all tact. She was 20 minutes late to our table after we waited 45 minutes to be seated. Ryan believes she was dropping a bomb in the bathroom, but also believes we deserve an explanation. “If you’ve been dropping a bomb for 20 minutes, I want to know.”

When servers suck, Ryan actually pulls some weird psychotic shit and tips them more. He says it’s proving a point. What point you ask? Well, here’s tipping according to Ryan, “Yes, you suck. You suck tremendously. And I was a real asshole, but, thanks for putting up with me. I’m a good tipper.” 

Back to Sunday’s—ordering takes place: Sunday’s Benedict including Poached Eggs, Truffled Hollandaise, Tomato Confit, Spinach, Foccacia Toast, Shaved Parmesan with Ham. I’m going to be a little bit easier: Goat Cheese, Mushroom, and Chives Omelet. Oh and a side of grits, slap em on me.

If Sunday’s does something right, it’s Goat Cheese. No shortage of Goat Cheese in that establishment. My omelet was legitimately STUFFED with Goat Cheese and you know what? That’s fucking awesome.

Ryan inhaled his big thick chunk of beautiful smoky ham on top of his Benedict, along with all the other glorious components, and while I literally was drooling over his plate (and my own) I controlled myself, and did not spear-fish his plate with my fork every time he looked away.  Not that I do that anyway………….

Again, trying to fit into a wedding gown in the near future and nobody likes a fat bride. Actually nobody likes me as a bride anyway, whether that’s as a fat bride or a skinny bride. Michelle Boyd and Bride is a juxtaposition.  Counting calories regardless. We all need goals.

All in all, extremely satisfied. We’ll be back–especially now that we know that Sunday’s is delicious, and within walking distance. Dangerous. Nom nom nom.





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