Bobby Flay

Today, before I was mowed down with the highest fever I have EVER had (I never get fevers, and now I'm at 102), I had brunch.

I'm sure you can guess who I saw at Joe Allen.

That's right...Food Network's resident smarmy frat-boy, Bobby Flay!

Now, I've always been rather ambivalent about Mr. Flay. Yeah, his recipes look good, but I can't have a grill at my condo, so that basically knocks out most of them. Furthermore, eh. He's not SO much to look at like my beloved Mr. Lieberman, and, for the most part, he seems like a cocky, disinterested ass most of the time. I mean, I'm sure that if you knew him he'd be a nice enough guy, but I feel like on occasion, he'd belittle a waiter for screwing something up, or flip someone off in line at Wholefoods.

He just seems sort of...brusque.

Anyhoo... as Lesley and I trapised into Joe Allen this fine, rainy Miami Sunday Morning, who was the first person that I saw? That's right. Mr. Flay. He was seated with an old guy (his dad?), and as luck would have it, I sat right next to them!

!!!

This time, I TOTALLY managed to keep my composure. I looked over at him with casual disinterest, before turning to Lesley and mouthing, "OH MY GOD! THAT'S BOBBY FlAY!"

Of course, she had absolutely no idea who I was talking about, and to her, he probably just looked like yet another pasty, freckled leprachaun in a blue shirt.

But you better believe I was taking in all the details. Yes. Every single detail.

Bobby Flay was wearing exactly what I was wearing, except for shirt color and belt. From the bottom up: brown leather driving loafers, Seven jeans, and a light-blue Pique Polo Shirt. (I was wearing a dark blue Lacoste.) He wore a brown leather belt, which I know, because when he stood up, his shirt got a little caught in it. I was wearing a belt with Tarpon on it.

He was nice enough, I guess. Only one table of people bothered his table, and I figured it was b/c they knew the old guy, because they talked more to him than Bobby.

Bobby ordered the Hamburger (THAT'S WHAT I GET THERE, IF I'M NOT THERE FOR BRUNCH, GETTING THE BRIOCHE FRENCH TOAST!) and he had a little bottle of Schweppes Ginger Ale at the table.

When Mr. Flay departed the restaurant, he didn't take a mint, but his dining companion did.

And I believe he was given one of said mints.

Impressions: Mr. Flay needs a damn tan. Also, his arms were very skinny. He should lift some weights. I know, I know.. he's not a SEXPOT supermodel...but still. His arms looked like little Bratwursts sticking out of his polo shirt.

I refrained from taking his napkin, his used glass, or his Gingerale bottle.

I also refrained from losing my shit at him like I did to those poor people from Reno 911!.

I also probably infected him with my horrible cold, so, Mr. Flay, in addition to all the subjective observations about you that I just made, I apologize for giving you the flu!