Those of you who frequent this blog, or have ever had more than a 20 minute conversation with Rita, know she celebrates a self-proclaimed holiday each March.
It's called Oysterfest. Today was the, uh, opening shuck.
I don't care for oysters. Slimey, fried, smoked, drowning in peppered vodka, or any of the 47 other ways they appear on the menu.
But I'm loyal. And they do have half-price bar items from 4-7.
Y'all will be glad to know she's survived and is crashed on the sofa in an oyster (vodka?) coma.
March madness indeed.