VPB: Not an Abbreviation for a Newly Discovered STD, Perv

Location: on the corner of that one cobbled street in downtown Burlington and one of the four other streets there.

So my roommate and one of my friends from my floor went to Vermont to visit my roommate's boyfriend. On Saturday, we went on a thoroughly informative tour of the Ben and Jerry's factory. Sadly a) the video about these "two real guys" did not actually feature them but instead rehashed the same picture 10 times; b) the tour apparently wasn't informative enough since at the end of the tour one girl as the tour guide how ice cream was made; c) it turned me off of Ben and Jerry's for a long time once my greed and munchies got the better of me. Watching my two friends despondently finish their gargantuan cones (to prove their champ status) completely clinched my moratorium.

Still what's important is that on the way to the factory, my roommate's boyfriend made a reservation to the Vermont Pub and Brewery (henceforth referred to as VPB. This is akin to those halcyon days in 2003 when everytime Weapons of Mass Destruction were mentioned, the publication would necessarily write WMD in parentheses.) for 7:30. Needless to say, we left the dorm at roughly the time we were supposed to be there. It was once we got there that Pat's male instinct kicked in and he refused to ask directions for the location of the restaurant. Still it was surprising that we were lost since, as my roommate astutely pointed out, there are roughly 4 streets in downtown Burlington, of which only one is cobbled. Ultimately, we found the restaurant. And though we had obviously missed our reservation, we were seated pretty quickly. I didn't even have time to observe the cautionary display of fake IDs they had hanging. VPB is clearly no Tantra. (I hope you are paying attention to previous posts)

The menu was a newspaper. It was daunting. For some reason, when I had asked Kelly if $12 would be enough for VPB she said it wouldn't, which is why when I read the menu and saw that everything was under $6, I assumed that it would not be filling. I assumed it would be less than an appetizer. I scoured the menu for items of a higher price, convinced that this 50 item menu was the kid's menu. WRONG. It really hindered the decision-making process. I can only imagine the harrowing experience it would have been for Connie who can't even make a decision at Miyake (I feel no need to further elaborate on our relationship to the restaurant. This is another check on whether or not we have good readers). When the waiter came by, anxiety set in. While Kelly had already debated whether or not to get a grilled cheese AND cheese fries (dairy is her life), I brooded over whether or not I should order the lasagna or some mushroom head concotion? WWEAD (The newspaper-menu also had a section on Ethan Allen: yes, he is the furniture maker, and yes, he is the greatest Vermonter that ever lived). Obvi, I settled for the mushroom thing that was called Bird's Nest or something, but that the waiter simply described as mashed potatoes in a portabella mushroom head. Nice euphemisms, VPB.

Sidenote: All the dishes had really odd names. Pat's and Mikael's was called Holes in the Toad or something bizarre like that. Toad for the Ho (perhaps some sort of abstinence message)? I don't remember.

We got some poppers to begin--they were great. I had never heard of them before but there's something about deep-fried sour cream encrusted jalapenos that my heart yearns for. The service was prompt, the waiters friendly, and the food was really good, and just the right serving size. The only thing I didn't love was the dressing for my mini-salad, but I'm a champ so I ate it anyway.

We sat next to a window, enjoying the sign that alerted us to the fact that it was 10 degrees outside. The lighting was almost as dark as La Lanterna, so it was pretty fucking romantic. And the dinner was accompanied by various tales about the drunken mistakes we college students make and a catalogue of the various places UVM students pass out in (the student center, down the hall, in a random guy's bed, under a tree, parents' bed, and perhaps most bizarrely, someone else's parents' bed).

The total came out to $50 which is some sort of Christmas miracle. Or maybe New York is ridiculously overpriced. (I'm trying to think of a funny third option but it's not coming to me) Maybe it's atonement for the fact that it's so miserably cold and snowy in that state.

Regardless, I was very pleased with the chef. This should balance out Connie's tragic account. We shouldn't laugh at her pain.