Only the Edges, Please (Picky Leaf Club)
I am Azmi, reporting from Meknes on the most exclusive restaurant in town. It has two tables, both on my rug. The head critic is Belle, a rabbit of firm opinions, and her latest review concerns the green menu: she eats every leaf the same way, edges only, ribs rejected, all leaves, every single time. Tonight I publish her verdicts in full, because His Royal Highness is spoiled and I live to serve.
Ambience: five stars, would flop again
The critic arrives promptly at salad hour, settles beside the plate with her paws tucked, and inspects the offering with the seriousness of a judge. Lighting is warm, service is instant, and the fellow diner, Bambi, functions as the house disposal unit for everything she declines. Our critic notes with approval that the room is quiet and the plate is low, so no leaf must be chased across the floor. First impression: promising. The management, meaning me, hovers nearby with a notebook, which the critic tolerates as long as the refills keep coming. Seating deserves a mention too: the rug by the window holds the day’s last warmth, and the critic has claimed that exact square of it since spring. Move the plate six inches left and the review sours. Keep it where the light lands and the grades rise.
The romaine course: edges divine, ribs declined
On the plate tonight: fresh romaine, washed, shaken dry, ribs removed beforehand per house policy. The critic takes the first strip from the edge, chews with rhythmic satisfaction, and proceeds clockwise around the leaf like she is tracing a map. The pale center rib is nosed aside untouched. Asked for comment, she pushes the rib toward Bambi and returns to the green border. I record this in the same daily habit I keep in what my bunnies ate today, because patterns this consistent deserve written records. I am not a vet, so our leaf routine stays inside the plan our own vet already knows, and anything new gets checked there first.
Side dishes: the disposal system
Every great critic needs a kitchen that wastes nothing, and ours runs on pairing: picky bunny plus recycle bunny equals zero waste. The centers travel straight to Bambi, the garbage-disposal mate, who crunches them with genuine enthusiasm. He does not review. He consumes. The critic watches him finish her rejects with mild disdain, as if to say the help is eating well tonight. Three houses of rabbit keepers tell me they see the same ritual, and I believe it, because the logic is flawless. One rabbit curates, the other clears, and the human washes one plate instead of mourning a full bin.
The drinks course: water, served with ceremony
No review is complete without the drinks, and here the house earns full marks. A heavy bowl of fresh water stands beside the plate, refilled twice daily and wiped clean, because a critic who eats dry leaves expects her water cold and her bowl steady. Belle drinks between strips, washing down the edges with long neat laps, then returns to the plate with renewed focus. Bambi prefers to drink after he finishes the ribs, in one extended session that empties a visible inch. Management has learned to refill before the evening sitting, not after, since an empty bowl during service costs a full star. Simple, unfussy, essential: the water course never trends, never disappoints, and never gets pushed toward the disposal mate.
Presentation: how the kitchen adapted
Management has learned. Leaves are now torn into edge-forward strips before serving, ribs set aside for the second diner from the start. I used to offer whole leaves and hope; hope is not a serving strategy. These little plating lessons echo the photo sessions I shared in my lettuce serving and photo log, where the camera caught exactly which parts vanished and which parts migrated. Spoiled is a serving style, I have decided, and I have become fluent in it. Ribs pre-removed, harmony restored, critic already asking about tomorrow’s menu.
Final scorecard
- Edge texture: crisp, beloved, gone in seconds.
- Rib texture: rejected on sight, every leaf, every time.
- Service speed: adequate, though the critic suggests faster hands.
- Value: excellent, since the second diner finishes the plate.
The critic’s closing remarks, translated from the thump and the flop: the edges are the point, the ribs are the staff meal, and the management may keep its job. She sealed the review by washing her face with both paws, a gesture regulars will recognize as the highest praise she gives. As her servant, waiter, and dishwasher here in Meknes, I accept the terms. Tomorrow the same ritual will play out at the same hour, and I will be there with the notebook, the camera, and the pre-torn strips. Picky plus disposal equals zero waste, and the diary eats well on nights like this.
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