Arm(adillo) Yourself

The holding area of the trendy NYC restaurant where we were sitting was packed nearly to the point of being uncomfortable. A throng of fundraisers huddled together chatting, laughing, on somewhat silly, low-sitting chairs near the front door as harried servers maneuvered their way through the maze of bodies serving drinks and ushering people to tables. But at the point when Glenn made his armadillo proclamation (as matter-of-factly, I might add, as if he were announcing his entrée selection or wine preference) it seemed, to me at least, that all conversation faded out, the wine glasses stopped clinking and even the traffic outside silenced itself temporarily. I was riveted. Armadillos? Really?