On the 23rd we all gathered at Stanford for James’ surgery. At lunch, Grandma Suzy, Uncle Geoff and I braved the rain and headed over to the new Poké Bowl restaurant at the mall. Long story short, it was deelish. A bowl full of healthy, fresh, flavorful yumminess. Absolutely no comparison to these terrible Acai Bowls currently plaguing our small town. A**ai Bowls is what I call ’em.
Our recent visit to the Poké Bowl place reminded me of a few additional poké anecdotes. I mean, besides the lovely compliment, from a knowing mom at the neighborhood Halloween potluck, on my homemade “Pokémon Put Me In The Poorhouse” jean jacket.
This summer we met our neighbors up the road, the Johnsons. They have four kids— Noah, Phoebe, Ethan and Ava. Noah and Phoebe are middle schoolers and all four are enviably friendly and wonderfully polite with strong, respectable handshakes. After the kids leave, Jacob says nonchalantly, “So… you think Noah babysits?” I just gawk at him. He’s been resisting the concept of “babysitting” for years, even though he’s always had the best babysitter ever in Miss Dulce.
“Uh, I dunno. Why do you ask?” And that’s when his cunning little strategy materializes…
“Do you think he has Pokémon Go?”
He’s been trying to get his hands on some Pokémon Go for months. He wants it so bad he’s willing to be babysat.
A few weeks later, we took a day trip to Los Olivos, on a day that was hotter than Blaziken (That’s a Pokémon joke… he’s a fire type… oh never mind). James, Jake and I haven’t been to Los Olivos since The Great James’ Santa Barbara Birthday with a Bossy Baby Fiasco of 2010. I mostly remember him wailing uncontrollably through the streets as we dragged him away from the town chicken coop. Jacob that is.
So we attempt to check-out Los Olivos for the second time, sweating from one darling boutique and wine tasting room to the next. At one point, James leaves us in the tolerable shade of a cushioned teak seating arrangement and sets-out on a lunch option assessment mission. He returns ten sweltering minutes later with a handful of options including the lowbrow deli market on the corner, the highbrow deli on the other corner, or a place serving poké and white wine. Ding ding ding, I’ll take Door #3. James takes the boys to the lowbrow choice while I head eagerly toward chilled Chardonnay and a bowl of beautiful Hawaiian fish, hopefully swathed in cooling, delicious asian flavors with those light, crispy wonton chips.
I breeze past the hip chalkboard sign and float into the air conditioned tasting room. Hmmm. There must be a kitchen in the back? I make my way toward a pile of papers that might be menus. They’re not. I casually question the young man pouring wine behind the counter.
“So… we saw the poké sign out front?” I ask airily.
“Oh yeah. We’re a Pokémon Go Stop. The owner’s a big fan.”
And I sweatily trudge back to the highbrow market… Pokémon Go. Stop.