Last night we started chatting as we did our closing sidework, and it turned out that we all had something in common: we all thought someone else had gas. Amie thought it was Deen. Rene thought it was me. I thought it was a party of four on the last table out. But we realized that with the room empty and the lingering smell, it probably wasn’t coming from a person at this point. I checked everything in the kitchen, and all the gas appliances were turned off, and the gas line doesn’t come anywhere near the private dining room. But we were skittish, and since I was the kind of tired that comes from working a dozen or so consecutive sixteen-hour days, I thought I might be the kind of tired that comes from natural gas poisoning. So we called the fire department in hopes that they could enlighten us. They came and even though the six of us at Feast were convinced of a sulphuric odor, the four of them smelled pretty much nothing. They supposed that the varnish on our freshly varnished bar and tables was off-gassing, but they called another truck with a gas sensor on it, and Southwest Gas as well, and then they set about checking out our fire riser. It’s basically a hydrant and sprinkler system all in one, and apparently it was a pretty sharp one, because they were on that thing like a hobo on a ham sandwich.
They filled me in- yes, it was indeed the nicest fire riser they had seen, which made me think that the new code cost me probably five or ten thousand dollars, which made me hope that I was in fact the kind of tired that comes from natural gas poisoning. They, on the other hand, just reveled in the niceties of our fire riser.