The Beach House. Tacos, great coffee, and more
I eat at the Beach House a lot. If you come to visit Ventura, there's a good chance I will take you there. We'll sit on the pier, outdoors, eat tasty tacos with zippy avocado-tomatillo salsa and watch the waves. Life will be good.
I went there on Thursday night with my friend Nancy. Then today, on my way home from an afternoon class at church, I stopped in again.
I got my glass of wine (did I mention they have beer and wine?) and waited for my grilled pasilla pepper to be done.
"Number 29," the girl called.
A minute later, she called again "Number 29."
I sat there, sipping my chardonnay in a plastic cup and musing - seriously, I was musing - on the fact that every time I go to the Beach House, there is some stoned goofball who forgets to pick up his or her order.
"Twenty-nine."
I checked my ticket again. My number was 55. Clearly, I had some waiting to do. Why didn't this loser pick up his taco?
The girl came out from behind the counter and tossed a plate down in front of me. My order.
"Uh, I was calling for a few minutes," she said.
"But...but my number is 55," I said.
She smiled weakly and gave me a tiny "Yeah, right, stupid lady" sort of eye-roll.
I munched on my pepper and tortillas and wondered how the hell the order taker had gotten my order number so wrong. It's hard to get good help these days, I thought.
Then I realized. I jammed my hand in my back pocket and found the little slip with 55 printed on it. And I checked my front pocket and found the slip that said 29.
I was wearing the same jeans that I had worn when I went there Thursday night, jeans that I didn't bother to wash. I grabbed the two slips of paper and went up to the counter.
"See, see, I'm not crazy, I just came here the other night and got 55 and now I have 29, that explains everything, thank God I thought I was losing my mind," I babbled.
I have a feeling she still thinks I'm crazy.
