A funny thing happened as I ate my way through Fremont.
I’d stepped up the pace of my eating, desperately trying to meet my goal of trying every eating/drinking establishment (more than 100 in total) in my neighborhood by the end of 2014. I was within a couple weeks of my target when it happened. A friend said to me, “So have you tried that Caesar salad place on Aurora? Is it any good?”
Salad? On Aurora? It wasn’t on my list. Another place I had to add to my schedule, which already required eating out three nights a week.
But I was doing errands by foot that day, and I realized a slight detour would take me to this Caesar salad restaurant. The timing was perfect to pick up a salad and take it home for lunch. A plan. This wasn’t going to mess up my goal after all.
I walked up to the building—a small house with a big sign showing a happy Roman gladiator-type face that looked like he had eaten too much spinach.
Odd, I thought, there’s no parking and it’s on a very busy, almost highway-type, street. Bad location for a restaurant.
The interior didn’t look very restaurant-like either. No people, no sign of tables or kitchen, a few chairs like a waiting room, an interior door with a small window that made me think of a money-laundering money exchange place I’d once (inadvertently) gone to in Ukraine.
“Can I help you?” said a subdued voice. The thin, dark man had quietly slid through another interior door to the entry area I was in.
“I’m looking for the restaurant,” I said. Then, spotting a sign that said “salad bar” and that pointed to the next room, I said, “Oh, I guess that’s where I need to be.”
He shook his head calmly. “You’re the third one this week. This isn’t a restaurant. It’s a medical marijuana dispensary.”
Now I know why the little gladiator guy looked so happy.
(Read more about my adventures eating my way through Fremont.)