Mon mauvais weekend

Friday night, I ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant in South Nashville. I've never been too crazy about the restaurant in question -- I'll call it Pas Llama's -- and I didn't want to go there on Friday. Since I wasn't paying, I didn't say anything. I rode to Pas Llama's with my mouth shut.

Pas Llama's is pretty popular 'mongst Nashvillians. I know this 'cause there're eight locations in and just outside of the city, and each and every one of 'em has a crowd for lunch each weekday and a crowd for dinner every Friday and Saturday night. But just because a lot of folks in Nashville like a place don't mean it's good. I mean, Whitt's BBQ has a dozen restaurants across Music City and has won awards and caters hundreds of 100-plus-people events each year. Whitt's also serves the stringiest, driest smoked pork shoulder I've ever eaten.

Like I said, I've never been a big Pas Llama's fan, mainly 'cause of this: three-quarters of the items on the Pas Llama's menu come slathered in cheap cheese and out-of-the-can red sauce. (A few menu items come slathered in out-of-the-can green sauce, and they're equally as bland as their red cousins.) With that said, I think you have a pretty good idea of why I didn't want to go to Pas Llama's on Friday.

When it came time to order Friday, I went with something I'd never had at Pas Llama's: a grilled chicken breast topped with grilled tomatoes, onions, and peppers. The chicken was a tad overcooked, and it tweren't topped with enough grilled tomatoes for my taste.

I ate my free dinner without uttering a disparaging word, and I dutifully, i.e., with a smile on my face, asked for a box for my left-overs (I reckon I ate a little over half of what I'd been served).

When I got home, I put my left-overs in the refrigerator. I got undressed, stretched out in my recliner and read for about three hours. I went to bed - oh, 'bout 11:30 - and I quickly dozed off. And then the unpleasantness began ...

I awoke about 4 a.m. Saturday morning with, well, let's just say I had a sour stomach. I drank some Pepto-Bismol®, I drank me some Sprite, and then I went back to bed. It took me a while to do, but I eventually went back to sleep. I awoke again at 6 a.m., and my sour stomach had advanced from the "sour" stage to the "four alarm fire" stage.

From 6 a.m. to 8 a.m., I reckon I visited my bathroom a dozen times. I also burped the tomatoes, onions and peppers I'd eaten twelve hours previously 'bout three dozen times. Each time I did so, I dropped an F-bomb whilst cursing anyone employed by, or associated with, Pas Llama's Mexican Restaurant.

I had important work to do at my office on Saturday, so I got dressed and soldiered on in. Two hours was all I could stand. I returned home and commandeered the couch. And that's pretty much where I stayed for the remainder of the weekend. I didn't get to see the new Batman movie, as planned, and I missed out on DirecTV's free MLB Extra Inning weekend, 'cause I was all hopped-up on medicine and I was sleeping. As Yoda might say, f***ed up my weekend was. Indeed.

I won't ever -- won't ever, never -- go back to Pas Llama's. If you're smart, you'll follow my lead.