Soho was slightly out of the way, but it still earned a spot on my packed party agenda because of one word: jambalaya. Paying nothing to eat food that may permanently jeopardize your digestive system. Story of my life.
Background for those of you reading this blog from somewhere other than Columbus: Soho is a place that has bras hanging near the bar. You always come out smelling like cigarette smoke. Its recent music acts include a band called Whiskey Shit Vomit.
You now understand why the jambalaya intrigued me.
I got to Soho around 10:30, saw only 8-10 cars and figured this would be an easy in-and-out trip. Once inside, I realized the bar also had a very liberal definition of the zydeco music it promised, since the first song I heard was "Maneater" by Hall & Oates.
Anyway, I snapped the pic featured above and figured I'd be on my way. Until I got in a conversation with Gary, a self-described former hippie who told me about his long-ago dreams of becoming a photojournalist. Apparently a marijuana possession charge stopped him. Cautionary tale.
I also met a guy from local band Broken, and somehow committed myself to hearing them play Saturday. This should be interesting.
Before I knew it, I was running late to meet my friends downtown. Halfway out the door, however, I realized that the jambalaya experience wouldn't be complete if I didn't actually TASTE it. So I approached the two crock pots (jambalaya and rice) carefully and allowed a nearby pool player to stir both "to enhance the flavor."
Bottom line: Color me jambalayed. It was actually pretty delicious and I wanted more. In fact, even with plenty of stops ahead of me, I named the jambalaya the night's MVP. Mmm.
And then, stomach contents remarkably intact, I was off.
