Da Bomb?

A few weeks ago while traveling for work I had dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Tacos Rancheros or something and it came highly recommended by our hotel concierge. Patti, the woman I was traveling with backed this recommendation up with an online review. She carries an iphone and read about it on the way over. I’ve noticed people who carry the iphone tend to whip them out a couple thousand times a day while exclaiming things like, “I just don’t know how I lived without this,” or “You should get one of these, they make my life so easy.”

I never know how to respond when it comes to the iphone. I’ve owned Apple computers most of my life and I love them and I’m fiercely loyal to them. When it comes to the iphone, though, I haven’t been converted. I like the idea of it but hear mixed reviews. “The gadgets part is great, the phone part sucks,” or “This would be perfect except AT&T’s service is crap.” To me it feels like the dirty bridge between PC people and Apple people and I’m not sure I want any part of it.

Tacos Rancheros turned out to be horrible with the staff being even worse. At least the woman serving us was. There were two other servers and I noticed they spent the evening sprinting from table to table, causing them to sweat profusely but it did allow them to cover all but a single table - ours. I wondered who had it worse as our server stood chatting up the bartender leaving us unattended for long periods of time.

Our waitress was named Rosa, I think, and she seemed burdened by our presence. More interested in maintaining her love life at the bar, she had long black hair and a casual swagger suggesting she had all the time in the world. Prior to taking our order, Rosa asked if we’d like anything to drink. I don’t drink and ordered a Diet Coke but Patti had questions. “What do you recommend,” she asked? “I was thinking about a martini but don’t like anything too sweet. How’s the pepper martini?”

“Oh that one’s da bomb,” said Rosa.

Da bomb? Our server was hispanic with a thick accent and her response caught me off guard. Patti found the martini extremely sweet finishing only half. We paid at the door after growing tired of waiting for Rosa to return from chatting up the bartender. It turned out ‘da bomb’ must have been a reference to what was happening in my stomach on the drive home.