Phat Taxi

I've had many interesting taxi experiences in my life.  There was the female cabbie who drove me home from Ohare and explained her anthropological thesis to me.  There was the greek guy who drove me home on Lake Shore Drive, told me my eyes were the color of the lake and offered to set me up with his nephew.  And the infamous time when my driver was so high (off god knows what) that he forgot that I was still getting out of the cab (door open and everything) when he took off around the corner and I promptly rolled out onto Wacker drive, amazingly unscathed apart from a few bruises, scrapes, a crowd of worried pedestrians and a lot of shock. 

But now, in Cincinnati, the Queen City itself, I have found the Queen of all taxi experiences.  Of course this has nothing to do with dining in this city.  But it adds so much to my perception of this city's local flavor, that I have to include it here. 

Saturday night, Leslie and I decided to do an impromptu ladies night.  We assembled a great group of gals; Stephanie, Leslie, myself, Lindsey, Hilary and Lydia; and started with wine and snacks at Leslie's apartment.  The goal of the evening was to bar hop in Hyde Park Square.  This isn't terribly difficult, as there are really only three late night places in Hyde Park: Tellers, Red and Beluga.  It's a miserable rainy and cold evening outside and we are dolled up in our sexiest, but un-walkable shoes, and cutie outfits, so Leslie decides to call a taxi.

And we wait.  This is one of the downers of Cincy.  You can't just get a taxi.  You have to plan for a taxi.  You have to call, and see if one is available, and then give yourself about 30 minutes for it to show up.   So we keep drinking and eventually we hear honking outside. 

But that can't possibly be our taxi?  I mean, who puts a lo-glo in neon blue and silver spinning hubcaps on a taxi?

"Um Leslie, what taxi company did you call."

"The first one that came up, one sec, let me check."

Pause. Click Click.  A look of utter perplexity on Leslie's face. Pause. Anticipation.

"It's called Phat Taxi" Leslie says.

We all start laughing hysterically.  We are, no doubt, about to get into the phattiest taxi in the land. 

And it only gets better.  Inside, he has a disco ball hanging from the ceiling.  As we pile in, he tells us to smile and takes a picture of us with his digital camera. We notice that these pictures slide show across the laptop attached to the front panel of the car.  Sweet.  We are now c-list famous.    The entire time we are giggling hysterically, already sure that this is going to be the greatest girls night ever.  And we start watching the pictures of all the other people who have piled in the phat taxi in the past.  Oh, but we get more than pictures.  We get social commentary.  The slide show is intersperced with messages about Jesus and how our tips are going to sponsor an inmate.  Good thing I'm just tipsy enough not to wonder whether I've gotten myself in a bad situation or not.

We arrive shortley thereafter at Red.  He tips his cowboy hat at us, thanks us and hands us his card to visit the website (and hence the slideshow that we will now be apart of) at www.phattaxi.com. 

And the best part?  The evening only got more exciting after that. 

Is this that place?  B's review:

Chillness:  Sponsor an inmate chill.   

Price:  All the Phat you want at normal taxi rates.

Food Quality:  I don't recommend touching your lips to anything in here.