I ate at Mimis in the Merigny for the second time this weekend with a group of friends.  The experience was one of the best meals I’ve had in New Orleans so far.  The chef personally came out with every dish we ordered and explained it to us.  The food was not the best tapas I’ve ever tasted, but still incredibly delicious.  The goat cheese croquetas are perfectly done and come with a honey to dip them in that is so sweet it made me want to lick a puppy.  A friend commented on another dish saying, “I want to take a bath in the Mushroom Manchego Toast and then give birth to it.”  Yum.   They also have my favorite dessert in the whole word: Chocolate broiled on a toasted baguette with sea salt and olive oil drizzled on top.  If you’ve never tasted it, your life is not quite as fulfilled as mine.

The only negative thing I can think of is that since it’s a tapas place, I had to exercise self-control and not devour every dish. The chef also has impeccable taste in Spanish music which, unfortunately, doesn’t make its way into the upstairs restaurant area, but the music in there isn’t half bad either.

Our waiter absolutely kicked ass.  He was the ultimate ninja waiter, anticipating our needs before we knew we had them without being overbearing or annoying.  After dinner we played poker at our table for a couple of hours, and he was still making sure we were all right and enjoying ourselves.  I can’t say enough about the service and level of attention we received Saturday.

On a side food thought and as a friendly warning: NEVER cheat on your oyster shucker.  The Southerner and I eat oysters at Pascal’s Manales about three times a week, and last week we ate them somewhere else instead and paid the price in poop.  Lots of it.  If you never want to be at the grocery store with your boyfriend and his dad and squirt a load in your pants when one of them makes you laugh, you will heed my warning.

When I told Brother J what happened, he immediately said “Oh god, you didn’t tell the Southerner what happened, did you? Please tell me you didn’t.” To which I responded, “Of course I did.  How could I not? How many times do you poop in your pants and not tell someone about it?” “You’re ruining your illusion of mystery.” he replied.  “Mystery? Half of our conversations are about poop and the bird shit on our front porch. Fuck mystery.  I’m talking about true love, bro.”

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