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Chicago is awesome if you want ethnic food. Name a cuisine and we have it. Lately, Kelly and I have been arguing forcefully for our favorite when it comes time to order carryout. She wants Indian. Usually she wins. Last night, my Mediterranean flavors won. We both love the place though, really. Everything is amazing...even their salad dressing. The falafel. The hummus. Heck, last night we even skipped our typical entree and just doubled down on the pita. 

As I walked into the restaurant to pick it up, the Asian lady on the phone/register (we admit we're curious how such great Mediterranean comes from a kitchen of what looks to be...Koreans?) was talking to an angry customer. Keep in mind this place is the size of our living room, including kitchen, dining room, and restrooms. There is no entryway, just a door that opens straight into the laps of dining customers. Well, the conversation went something like this...

"No, sir, he's just our delivery driver. He does not prepare your food. I promise, sir, we cooked your food here in our kitchen. [I can see through to where they are plating food as I listen.] I'm sure his hands are clean though." This part of the conversation took a turn into washing hygiene that I'm not really sure about because I was only half paying attention. But I tried to smile at her. It was obvious she was having a bad, busy night and obvious the guy on the phone was being a jackass. 

Leda loved our dinner...sort of (Cole was in bed). She mostly ate bites of pita. And picked up falafel balls looking at them strangely before letting them roll back down into the pan. You could see her brain working overtime. You'd think she would have liked the marinated cucumbers and tomatoes which were in perfect Leda-size bites? No. She much rather would play with the tiny stalks of lettuce still attached. Picking them apart, leaf by leaf until they were scattered across the living room floor. 

That's fine, stick to the pita, kid. More for us.