don’t eat off the floor

Persephone is mostly a restaurant, except patrons must pass through a clothing store in order to find the host, who could be mistaken for a DJ on a Saturday night (or maybe the DJ was the host, who knows). We took a table in the bar, surprisingly hopping considering nary a soul was on the streets, per usual for that time of the week in the Fort Point area.
Our waiter was excited about Restaurant Week; we opted for some lighter bar fare, but he still seemed satisfied by my choice to get the fresh baked soft pretzel, even though he warned that it took 15 minutes to make. We were in no hurry.
Shortly after only half our food came, our waiter stopped by, asking me gravely if I’d heard about what happened to my salad. “If fell,” he said, making a flipping motion. “The squid tried to jump back in the ocean.”
About five minutes later, my salad arrived, the greens comprised completely of parsley. “Do you think they ran out of lettuce?” I wondered, but this was clearly a chic place, and since the parsley seemed to compliment the grilled squid, I didn’t question it further.
We dined along contentedly until a manager-type-looking woman stopped by to say, “I’m so sorry about the pretzel.” We looked at her quizzically. “Something happened to that, too?” I asked.
“It fell,” she said. “We’re baking you another one.”
As we joked about what could possibly be going on in the kitchen, the pretzel finally arrived: buttery, bacon-topped, perhaps the best $8 hot pretzel I’ve ever had. Perhaps this was the restaurant’s way of adding to their mystique, but we left, wallets lighter, appetites satisfied, slightly bewildered.

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