Last night Kegan and I went to dinner on the San Antonio Riverwalk. He's been living down here since August and is kind of over the Riverwalk experience, but we decided to try it one more time, and now I'm pretty much over the Riverwalk experience, too … well, the food part, anyway. (I still like the people-watching and the buckets of margaritas. I especially like the they-just-had-a-couple-buckets-of-margaritas people watching.)
Anyway, we went to the one place Kegan had yet to try — the Mad Dog British Pub, a place that, after taking our seats, Kegan described as “The Britsh Hooter's” … because all the girls wear teeny tiny shirts and super sassy kilts. (And then he kind of wondered why this was the one place he hadn't tried.)
Since Kegan hasn't been home since he left for Boot Camp in early June, he was hungry for a taste of home and ordered a pasty. We should have known that it wouldn't be the same as his favorite from O'Doherty's because it wasn't called a Butte Pasty, but we thought, how different can it be? Well, we found out. Super different, in a blah, flat, dry kind of way.
And, so, I'm pretty sure I know one place we'll be having dinner when he comes home for Christmas. A place that knows a pasty is supposed to be big and meaty and smothered in gravy.