Grab a carpet square and pipe down, it's story time! As most of you know, my relationship with my husband began the night of my 25th birthday. I had been celebrating (read: self medicating my way through a quarter-life crisis like a horse's ass) at Williams with some friends, and Noah managed to convince his buddies to join us after the Wolves game was over. I don't know if it was the beer or if it was love at first sight (probably the beer), but the moment he sat down it was like nobody else was in the room. Several cliches later, we decided to hit the bar within stumbling (literally some nights, and this is why we don't wear wood bottomed shoes anymore) distance from my apartment, so Noah went to ask his roommate if they could join us. Rather than give a yes or no answer, Derek gave the response of a lifetime:
"You know that's my cousin, right?"
Yup. Derek, one of my eleventy-nine cousins on my mom's side (not to mention she's his GODMOTHER), was sharing an apartment with my future husband. After Noah called me over to confirm and I figuratively, ahem, pooped a brick, it was all good and we went off to Al's for last call. So Noah and Derek continued living together for a while until my lease in St. Louis Park was up and we decided to rent our own little place in Golden Valley. (Yeah, we lived in sin. Don't judge. That's God's job. Don't do God's job for Him.) We found a delightful two bedroom with underground parking, a balcony, and the crappiest pool in the history of pools. But it was ours, and that's what mattered. The first night we ate Godfathers straight out of the box and I tried valiantly not to smear tomato sauce into the brand new carpet.
So you can imagine my disappointment when I found out this morning that "our" original Godfathers had recently closed. I can't say I'm surprised, given how that area's full of more upscale fast casual restaurants. True, it was next to Down In the Valley, which should really just call itself "Stoner's Pot Palace" and stop pretending to be a record store, because COME ON. But anyhow, I'm sad that some places we used to go are no longer with us. Clearly food is a big part of our relationship if I associate it with certain milestones. When we picked up my engagement ring we went to Morton's - aaaaand they're closed. First apartment, first taco pizza from that Godfathers - aaaaand they're closed. The most heartbreaking one has to be where we went on our first date - a little place called Tiburon.
Picture it: Sicily (or Minneapolis), 1922 (try 2004). A young blond woman is about to go on her first of many dates with a very handsome young man. He whisked her away in his chariot (Grand Am) for a night of sparkling (nervous, probably sweaty, at least on my part) conversation and amazing food at Tiburon. Now, they had both been doing Atkins like a couple of idiots, so the idea of mashed sweet potatoes was too tempting to turn down! Paired with a scrumptious, tender lamb chop, the couple to be dined like royalty in the company of a fish tank that ran the length of the entire restaurant. He kept staring at the tank in hopes that one of the bigger fish would eat another, because he was a very demented individual. After the meal, he accompanied her to the bar so that she might have herself an ill-advised cigarette (again - idiot). "Look!" he exclaimed. "The lights behind the bar change color!" As they did. And so the couple's first inside joke was born, and they lived happily ever after, except for the week before the wedding when she lost her damn fool mind a few times and almost burned the apartment down. Good times. Other than that, solid!