Walk the Lime

Another Saturday, another in the series of "house parties" that bridge the gap between Epiphany and Mardi Gras. La Trauma got the Euro-dime in the king cake last week, and hence was the host for this week's installment. He opted for a bar event at Cafe Flore, aka Cafe Whore, Cafe Hairdo and many other snarky queer monikers.

We wanted to grab a bite first so as not to drink on an empty stomach (a lesson well learned after many such attempts). We popped into Lime, one of our regular haunts. The place was hopping, both the lounge space and dining area packed with fun-loving folks, so we sat at the bar for a couple of cocktails and small plates.

I have to admit that I never intended to consider Lime a serious restaurant, but I'll tell you this: they do a few things brilliantly. The mini-burgers, aside from being adorable, are juicy and perfectly medium-rare -- and I am NOT a beef eater, yo. Love the fish tacos as well. In fact, I've never been disappointed in the quality of the food.

Last night had its hiccups, atypically. One of the bartendresses lost control of one of the plastic juice bottles -- empty, luckily -- and sent it careering straight at our heads; at one point I felt a mysterious sprinkling of something or other that we never did figure on the source of; and the waiter that brought our grilled prawns dropped one of the three on the floor behind us. As that accounts for 1/3 of the dish, he graciously replaced it with a fresh one from the kitchen, albeit 20 minutes later.

Nevertheless, we will return, again and again, whether for a full meal or just for the gaze and graze. It's just a place I like in spite of its self-conscious hipness.

Lime
2247 Market St