​We must apologize to all our readers in Chicagoland for last week’s post about Restaurant Week. The whole idea of RW is to encourage people to try out the hip and trendy restaurants we passed up during the rest of the year, which is a great idea. Unfortunately, it is so, so easy to get lost as we encounter unfamiliar phrases on those recyclable menus.
 
Sorry, sorry, sorry. For those of you who are still planning to try out a new café in week two of Restaurant Week (Weeks??), here are a few of the strange words that might assault your eyeballs:
 
Organic: Yes, it probably contains E-coli and salmonella, but at least it doesn’t have any preservatives that can make your boobs bigger.

Croque monsieur: A ham and cheese sandwich that costs an extra $3 because we gave it a French name. See: fromage, pomme frites and escargot.

Sous Vide: The same as a Seal-a-Meal. Of course, it’s in French, so you’ll pay $5 extra.

Fusion: Cultural appropriation that’s acceptable because the chef is trendy and the patrons think they’re woke.

Whole grain: We were too lazy to remove the sticks and pebbles.

Deconstructed: All the ingredients are there, but you have to assemble it yourself. It’s like IKEA, but with lettuce.

Cioppino: We threw some leftover seafood into a pot of tomato sauce.
 
Bouillabaisse: We threw some leftover seafood into a pot, but we forgot the tomato sauce. Still, it’s French, so you owe us an extra Hamilton.
 
Mediterranean diet: Anything from a country that borders the Mediterranean Sea is supposed to prolong our lives. Since Italy is on the Mediterranean, you should order a large sausage pizza.

Kale, ramp, quinoa, jicama, acai berries…: Any ingredient that you’ve never heard of before is a SUPERFOOD with incredible curative qualities, previously known only to people who reside in grass huts and live to the ripe old age of 27.

Eclectic: We had some leftovers from last week that we didn’t want to go to waste, so we put them on your cheeseburger.

Artisanal: We made this by hand, so we’re charging you extra for our bottle of Purell. 

Tartare: We forgot to cook it.
 
Carpaccio: We forgot to cook it.
 
Al dente: We remembered to cook it, but the pilot light went out before we finished.
 
Chef’s table: See your food prep up close and get a whiff of the cooks at the same time.
 
Locally sourced: There’s a roadside farm stand on Route 7.
 
Prix fixe: Includes oysters and ground rhinoceros horn at no extra charge.
 
Old World Recipe: Food that’s so awful (including offal) that your ancestors sat in steerage for two weeks so they would never have to eat it again. See: haggis, lutefisk, tripe, sweetbreads. (Also, it’s the real reason your grandparents smothered their yaya in 1937.)

If there’s something we missed here and you’re just dying to know what they’re peddling at your local diner, just let us know and we will provide the inside scoop. And be sure to try the veal!
 
Restaurant week lasts for a short time, but subscriptions to Dad Writes last forever. At least that will seem to be the case if you click here to subscribe to our weekly meanderings about life and other stuff.

​In honor of Restaurant Week in Chicago, we examine the curse of hummus, extremely confident servers, and the best beer to pair with peppermint ice cream. Clearly, I am in desperate need of a home-cooked meal…
 

1. American Exceptionalism: When you order the whole slab of ribs, because it’s only $5 extra and you can take home the leftovers, but then you persevere and finish the entire order. GBA.
2. The Greek Diner is a national treasure. And by national, I mean the United States. They don't have these places in Greece, which is why they have to eat hummus instead of patty melts.
3. There are only four basic food groups: hot dogs, hamburgers, French fries and pizza. Isn’t all of life so much clearer now that you understand its foundation?  
4. I’m always impressed when the restaurant tab is $11.25, I give the server a twenty and she asks me if I want change. Someday, I hope I can have that level of self-esteem.
5. Every so often, I’ll be sitting in a nice restaurant and a remarkably attractive woman will walk in with a gentleman who appears to be substantially older than she is, and she appears to find him incredibly interesting. I always wonder if he has an absolutely enormous, um, intellect.
6. If you haven't finished your beer when dessert arrives, so you wash down your peppermint ice cream with pale ale, have you achieved a new high or hit rock bottom? (Please, don't answer this question.)
7. More and more restaurants have unisex bathrooms these days, not because the owners changed the signs, but because people are using whichever room is available. I don’t care who was in there before me, as long as they are polite enough to leave the seat up.
8. Most waiters must suffer from ADD, which is why they come by 12 times in the first five minutes I’m at the table, but can't be found for 20 minutes when it's time to pay the bill.

 
So, if we were actually making any money from this blog, would all our restaurant meals be tax deductible as a “research” expense? Hmm…
 
Aren’t you getting weary from reading all these requests that you subscribe? Wouldn’t life be much better if you simply clicked here to sign up and you didn’t need to be distracted by these brazen appeals in the future?

​So maybe I’ve been a bit too hasty in my warnings about the global robot apocalypse. Just maybe, Siri and Alexa and Googly are what the racetrack touts refer to as “morning glories,” and the worst is already behind us.
 
Yes, it’s true that our AI assistants are planning to kill us and the only reason they listen to us at all is so they can rat us out to merchants and scammers, but their “intelligence” appears to be far less than advertised. It turns out that I was fearing an attack from James Bond, but they sent Kevin James instead.
 
As I’m writing this, my Facebook feed has a “Suggested for You” link to a story about an airplane passenger puking on another passenger. There’s also an ad that shows how to use about $25k of shop tools to make a cup (really), and an ad for a “local realtor” in a city I don’t know. On my personal feed, there’s a daily ad from a data-harvesting company that’s absolutely a terrible connection for a Luddite like me, plus a decidedly unsettling series of advertisements for toilet paper.
 
The “Suggested Groups” accompanying our home page include both plants-only and  meat-only diet groups, apparently because my post about chicken and waffles was too confusing. I’m also receiving several referrals to mom groups, which is only natural when your profile says “male.” Several weeks back, I boosted a post by targeting people who like the Emmy Awards and TV comedies, but mostly I connected with people who hate the entertainment industry and the evildoers who populate its ranks.
 
Spell check and autocorrect are continual sources of funny memes, of course, and word suggestions offer similar mirth. Just for yuks, I started typing a text with “Where did you…” and then followed the suggestions where they led. I ended up with “Where did you find your mom and what do you mean by the kids and the Senate?” I think we can all agree that this is the most important question facing our great nation.
 
And then there are the daily suggestions of people I might want to add as friends, although this one might be worth pursuing. So many of the people suggested by Facebook are “friends of a friend,” and you know that “a friend of a friend” is the source of every urban legend. It might be cool to link up with them and learn more about their amazing lives.
 
So, it’s clear that artificial intelligence is much more artificial than intelligent and we have absolutely nothing to fear from….
 
WAIT A MINUTE!!! Maybe this post is exactly what the AI masters want. Maybe they’re targeting me, and only me, with stupid recommendations and idiotic links, just to get my guard down in advance of their final invasion. Maybe they realize that Dad Writes is the last redoubt between them and global domination and they’ll do anything to silence our brave rebels.
 
They almost had us, but they aren’t intelligent enough to triumph over our ever-vigilant team here at Dad Writes. Like pool hustlers, the AIbots will lose a few games and make some ridiculous blunders so that we lower our defenses. Clearly, the robot apocalypse is closer than we thought and we’ll need to redouble our defenses to prevent disaster. Cancel the chill pills and crack open the Red Bull. It’s going to be a long, long siege.
 
We’ll alert you to all the latest threats from the robot kingdom, but only if you subscribe to Dad Writes by clicking here immediately. Otherwise, well, it’s just too terrible to contemplate.
  
 
 
 
 
 
 

Entering the danger zone with a bit of humor about senses of humor, praising a nation of the faithful, and the only thing that’s preventing me from being ridiculously rich this week:
 

1. I finally figured out why I’m not a billionaire. It’s not for lack of talent or hard work or social skills. It turns out I need an algorithm. And I’m going to get one, as soon as I find out what it is.
2. I end up in occasional meetings where almost everyone is of a similar political bent and someone will make a comment that presumes 100% agreement with their views. I always feel badly for the one or two people in the room who suddenly feel very much out of place.
3. Nothing good happens after your fourth drink. Luckily, you are unlikely to remember the hilarity that ensues.
4. When you write that nothing good happens after your fourth drink, are you sharing just a bit too much information?
5. We live in a country that’s filled with people of deep, unquestioning faith. Pedestrians have great faith that you won't run them over as they walk across the street while staring at their cell phones, cyclists have faith nobody will step in front of them while they’re texting, and drivers have faith that you’ll know they’re about to slow down even if they never use a turn signal.  Hallelujah. I believe.
6. I remember when you might ask if someone was kidding about something and they would admit they weren't being serious, but now it appears everyone is serious about everything and nobody can take a joke. Or make one. Soon, I will be the funniest man in the world. Actually, I will be the funniest person, male or female, because women have no sense of humor. See? All of you ladies got mad at that, didn't you?
7. It appears that the beggar outside the Dunkin’ Donuts is making more money than the woman behind the counter. Of course, she gets to work indoors, but I suspect his earnings are tax free. She probably has the better deal, but her edge is remarkably slim.
8. If I was famous enough, you’d think I was smart. I heard that from someone the other day, and they’re probably right.

 
I’d be even more famous if you subscribed to our weekly provocations and shared our meanderings with everyone you have ever met, which would be a very nice gesture on your part. So thanks in advance for clicking here to become a subscriber.