Just returned from our annual lunch with Joyce at The Palm. Ah, Joyce. I think if you name your daughter Joyce she is predestined to end up a ballsy babe with smoker's voice. Joyce. She's something. She's the salt of the earth with a mouth like a trucker...with hemorrhoids and miles from a truck stop.
But we love Joyce and we especially love The Palm, with its Filet Mignon the size of a Dodge Ram, its creamed spinach and whipped taters served family style, its old Hollywood charm and characatures on the walls, and the fantabulous dessert tray (Jamaica be damned). But alas, Joyce is retiring so this was most likely our last Palm lunch. Bye Bye clandestined celebrity sightings. Bye bye steak that costs more than my electric bill. Bye bye Creme Brulee. I will sure miss these lunches....and Joyce. I'll miss her too.