Bitchin' at the Bistro

As some of you may know, complaining is an art form. And, like landscape painters and laundresses everywhere, I try to mix a little light in with the darks. First, my visit to Petit Robert Bistro in Boston's South End. Their smoked salmon on croissant was everything I dreamed of: light, fluffy, and tasty -- but it took 30 minutes to arrive at my table (in the slightly screechy children's ante room).
Parked in a time-sensitive zone, where a ticket is twice the price of a hardy lunch a deux, I simultaneously ate and kept a watchful eye out for traffic cops on the prowl. I was lucky not to get ticketed, but I wish the restaurant had warned me beforehand of their leisurely service.
In another category altogether is Arlington's Za, and Lexington's Lexx -- two eateries with names so irksome that I won't go near either one -- the former refers to slacker-speak for "pizza" and the latter refers to sex (or Lexus, or perhaps both). Ill-chosen, I think, almost as bad as the nom de Michael Bublé.*
*At press time, I learned that this is in fact an authentic name. I still think it sounds fake but will work on relinquishing my grudge against him and it.