Back in the early Eighties, my family went to Legal Seafood to eat.
The place was noisy, and the seats couldn’t have been more uncomfortable if Torquemada had designed them.
The waiter came, and everybody ordered lobster.
Except for me. I ordered the swordfish.
“We’re at Legal Seafood,” my mother hissed. “They’re famous for lobster here.”
I was about to reply, but my grandfather was cursing out the waiter for bringing the bill before the food.
Everybody got sick on undercooked lobster.
Except for me.
“They famous for that too, Mom?” I asked her as she dry-heaved into the sink.