“The smell of my armpits is sweeter than the nectar of the gods and more divine.” Thanks for that, Whitman. As a life-long sweaty Betty, I have found these words very comforting over the years.
I was reminded of the Whitman quote last week when I ate at Holy Taco in East Atlanta. This was my second visit in the past year, and like the first, I was not impressed with their cardboard-inspired tortillas or sub-par fish tacos. I was especially unimpressed when I told the waitress that there was something wrong with our “organic” margaritas, and she suggested that perhaps we were not used to the taste of agave nectar. Um, no. In fact, I am fairly certain that there is a vein, the big one located closest to my heart, specifically labeled AGAVE. It is right next to that other one labeled NECTAR and the one next to that labeled FISH TACO. I was tempted to ask her if she was interested in smelling my armpits as proof, or at the very least give my pores a slight whiff, but I refrained. I’ve gotten in enough trouble lately.
Other than the assumption on the part of the waitress regarding the agave, service here was very good (they did not charge us for the returned margaritas)– so were the churros. Finally! They come in a paper bag with a side of some very delicious hot chocolate and luckily the friend to my left was too full from dinner to share, otherwise he may have lost a few precious fingers in the process.