Monday, July 6, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
"Low Taste and Low People" or, "Dinner at Texas Roadhouse"
It was with disgust and even pity (brief pity) that I strode confidentally to my designated table, following the overly-fleshy hostess, who had cheerily announced herself as "Paula."
The words of my Father, Charles Emmerson Agan the III, resonate in my mind as I pick my way through the putrid mass of middle America that clogs this once-chic eatery. Oh! Had we ever argued so? The matter at hand is unimportant; what is mortally important is the impudence with which my Father, with the meek support of Mother, had addressed me. This insult, I vowed as I sat down in the polished mahogany booth saymow, would not be forgotten or unavenged.
A vague yet insistent buzzing in my ear. It is "Paula", the hostess, who for some reason is still hovering over me. Concentrating, I offer a nonthreatening smile while firmly focusing on the table-top.
"...the rest of your party arriving?" Ha ha. This rube has assumed that I am to be joined in my repast by a guest (a.k.a. distraction.) I icily stare her into submission, until she slinks away to the safety of her host stand, bedecked as it is with vibrating pagers and clipboards. As she retreats, I both crack, shell and shuck a handful of peanuts, conveniently provided by the Management.
I am wearing a stylish and well-worn three-button polo by Izod (the three-button is often mistakenly thought of as "too country club" for casual wear, but I have found the exact opposite to be true; many assume I am wearing it to be "ironic," while those in-the-know immediately identify me as a gentleman-rogue about-the-town,) jeans by Levi Strauss and modified boots by Doc Marten.
At last, a hardbody, "Libby" arrives, seductively pronouncing that she will "be taking care of" me tonight. If she only knew. I acknowledge her clumsy if interesting double entendre, and, after ordering a Coke (extra ice), I begin to address the basket of biscuits which "Libby" has left. I immediately notice that the basket only contains three biscuits. suckthecumout. Soothing my anger with the Coke that "Libby" has just arrived with, I manage to order my "Cowboy Cut Rib eye," medium-well, as "Libby" giggles and winks at me. Ignoring her advances, I motion impatiently at the now-empty basket of biscuits, then turn to an urgent phone call from E. Wayne Littig.
Last night's episode of The Golden Girls concerned the imminent arrival of a former lover of Blanche (Rue McClanahan). Predictably, Dorothy (Bea Arthur) and Sophia (Estelle Getty) were curious (nosy, even) as to this gentleman's identity while Rose (Betty White) mistook him as her cousin Horshel from her hometown of St. Olaf. Much hilarity ensued, so much so that I slightly cut my thumb while sharpening my Spyderco Black Delica. Swiftly, Buddy and Brisco rushed to my aid, licking my wound as the swelling, comforting strands of "Thank You For Being a Friend" filled the room.
My steak arrives, the sizzle filling the room as "Libby" approaches. I end my business with E. Wayne, and turn with relish towards my steak. boomleinert
boomleinert indeed...
The words of my Father, Charles Emmerson Agan the III, resonate in my mind as I pick my way through the putrid mass of middle America that clogs this once-chic eatery. Oh! Had we ever argued so? The matter at hand is unimportant; what is mortally important is the impudence with which my Father, with the meek support of Mother, had addressed me. This insult, I vowed as I sat down in the polished mahogany booth saymow, would not be forgotten or unavenged.
A vague yet insistent buzzing in my ear. It is "Paula", the hostess, who for some reason is still hovering over me. Concentrating, I offer a nonthreatening smile while firmly focusing on the table-top.
"...the rest of your party arriving?" Ha ha. This rube has assumed that I am to be joined in my repast by a guest (a.k.a. distraction.) I icily stare her into submission, until she slinks away to the safety of her host stand, bedecked as it is with vibrating pagers and clipboards. As she retreats, I both crack, shell and shuck a handful of peanuts, conveniently provided by the Management.
I am wearing a stylish and well-worn three-button polo by Izod (the three-button is often mistakenly thought of as "too country club" for casual wear, but I have found the exact opposite to be true; many assume I am wearing it to be "ironic," while those in-the-know immediately identify me as a gentleman-rogue about-the-town,) jeans by Levi Strauss and modified boots by Doc Marten.
At last, a hardbody, "Libby" arrives, seductively pronouncing that she will "be taking care of" me tonight. If she only knew. I acknowledge her clumsy if interesting double entendre, and, after ordering a Coke (extra ice), I begin to address the basket of biscuits which "Libby" has left. I immediately notice that the basket only contains three biscuits. suckthecumout. Soothing my anger with the Coke that "Libby" has just arrived with, I manage to order my "Cowboy Cut Rib eye," medium-well, as "Libby" giggles and winks at me. Ignoring her advances, I motion impatiently at the now-empty basket of biscuits, then turn to an urgent phone call from E. Wayne Littig.
Last night's episode of The Golden Girls concerned the imminent arrival of a former lover of Blanche (Rue McClanahan). Predictably, Dorothy (Bea Arthur) and Sophia (Estelle Getty) were curious (nosy, even) as to this gentleman's identity while Rose (Betty White) mistook him as her cousin Horshel from her hometown of St. Olaf. Much hilarity ensued, so much so that I slightly cut my thumb while sharpening my Spyderco Black Delica. Swiftly, Buddy and Brisco rushed to my aid, licking my wound as the swelling, comforting strands of "Thank You For Being a Friend" filled the room.
My steak arrives, the sizzle filling the room as "Libby" approaches. I end my business with E. Wayne, and turn with relish towards my steak. boomleinert
boomleinert indeed...
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Golf at B. Deer; Lunch; Dessert
I flip A's phone closed with disgust, vowing that this, my 4th phone call to B, will be the last. His lack of consideration is despicable. I am wearing jean shorts by Levi Strauss, undershirt by Hanes, tennis shoes by New Balance and a charcoal gray polo by American Eagle.
A, predictably, is foolishly wearing cargo shorts, polo, ballcap and necklace, all by Abercrombie & Fitch. What a rube. As we pull into the parking lot of the golf course, my phone, an Apple iPhone, vibrates. B has decided to join us.
This morning's episode of The Golden Girls involved the death of a close friend of Sophia, and the resultant tumult this causes in the Devereaux/Nylund/Petrillo/Zbornak household. I nearly fell out of my chair laughing as good-natured Rose (Betty White) tried to consult the mourning, yet ever-fiesty Sophia (Estelle Getty). My laughter was sufficient to draw the attention of Buddy and Brisco, my prized companions. They joined me in my mirth. The Golden Girls is one of few television programs for which all principal actors were awarded Emmy Awards for their work on the show.
After a grueling round of golf, during which I correct B's freshman attempt at a swing and advise A on the proper attire for a first date (jeans, a polo shirt and well-worn Doc Martens), we decide to eat at the golf course bar.
After mentally filing away the hardbody waitress who coquettishly winks at me, we sit at the bar where J, a mutual acquaintance, is bartending. I order my usual, Pepsi-Cola on the rocks with a twist, and scan the room. Tigerwoods. Examples of poor taste and low breeding asail my sense, and I have to focus intently on the varnished wood of the bartop, drumming my knuckles in a soundless, frictionless dance, to avoid vomiting on the hardbody waitress, who continues to prance through my field of vision.
On J's recommendation, I order the Ribeye, medium-well. A orders a reuben, and I fight back a sudden urge to slash his throat with the available butter knife. B, ever the simpleton, finally decides upon the pork chop sandwich and immediately begins to second-guess himself. I laugh good-naturedly at his indecision, all the while envisioning the unmarked grave I have prepared for his internment at some future date.
Our food arrives, as does the hovering spectre of J, who, in a moment he will one day regret, actually eats a bite of my steak. A especially is besides himself with glee, and I force myself to breathe slowly and easily until the red vision passes. I cut into the steak and begin to eat, savoring the texture and juiciness of the meat, the taste of life recently extinguished. Four bites later it is finished, garlic mashed potatoes the only consolation prize. I patiently await my companions, while motioning impatiently for my fourth refill.
"Herestothenight," I challenge B, who responds with a charcteristic nod of servile obsequience before continuing his dining. Tiring of such an easy foe, I turn to A, who is doing his best to soil the reputation of all diners in this eatery by actually ordering a beer or a 'wolfkiller,' as he calls it.
Our meals finished, J returns, menu in hand. I don't hear his query at first, concentrating as I am on the half-empty bottle of ketchup which has been, incredibly, left turned upside down on it's cap.
"...dessert?" J's jovial voice breaks through the fog of war, and I quickly reassert my command of the situation, demanding to see the menu. Despite the wavering of my companions, I confidently accept J's suggestions of the "Schammy," which quickly arrives.
It is beautiful. Fully five warm chocolate cookies anchor the monstrosity, while vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, bits of Snickers bars and chocolate sauce adorn the dish. Hesitantly, my compaions began to spoon at the mixture, while I confidently tuck in.
The dish nearly gone, J returns, impressed with my appetitie. Though A and B begin to flag, I push on, finally devouring the final mouthful. Pulling out my well-worn platinum credit card, I am proud of what I have accomplished.
A, predictably, is foolishly wearing cargo shorts, polo, ballcap and necklace, all by Abercrombie & Fitch. What a rube. As we pull into the parking lot of the golf course, my phone, an Apple iPhone, vibrates. B has decided to join us.
This morning's episode of The Golden Girls involved the death of a close friend of Sophia, and the resultant tumult this causes in the Devereaux/Nylund/Petrillo/Zbornak household. I nearly fell out of my chair laughing as good-natured Rose (Betty White) tried to consult the mourning, yet ever-fiesty Sophia (Estelle Getty). My laughter was sufficient to draw the attention of Buddy and Brisco, my prized companions. They joined me in my mirth. The Golden Girls is one of few television programs for which all principal actors were awarded Emmy Awards for their work on the show.
After a grueling round of golf, during which I correct B's freshman attempt at a swing and advise A on the proper attire for a first date (jeans, a polo shirt and well-worn Doc Martens), we decide to eat at the golf course bar.
After mentally filing away the hardbody waitress who coquettishly winks at me, we sit at the bar where J, a mutual acquaintance, is bartending. I order my usual, Pepsi-Cola on the rocks with a twist, and scan the room. Tigerwoods. Examples of poor taste and low breeding asail my sense, and I have to focus intently on the varnished wood of the bartop, drumming my knuckles in a soundless, frictionless dance, to avoid vomiting on the hardbody waitress, who continues to prance through my field of vision.
On J's recommendation, I order the Ribeye, medium-well. A orders a reuben, and I fight back a sudden urge to slash his throat with the available butter knife. B, ever the simpleton, finally decides upon the pork chop sandwich and immediately begins to second-guess himself. I laugh good-naturedly at his indecision, all the while envisioning the unmarked grave I have prepared for his internment at some future date.
Our food arrives, as does the hovering spectre of J, who, in a moment he will one day regret, actually eats a bite of my steak. A especially is besides himself with glee, and I force myself to breathe slowly and easily until the red vision passes. I cut into the steak and begin to eat, savoring the texture and juiciness of the meat, the taste of life recently extinguished. Four bites later it is finished, garlic mashed potatoes the only consolation prize. I patiently await my companions, while motioning impatiently for my fourth refill.
"Herestothenight," I challenge B, who responds with a charcteristic nod of servile obsequience before continuing his dining. Tiring of such an easy foe, I turn to A, who is doing his best to soil the reputation of all diners in this eatery by actually ordering a beer or a 'wolfkiller,' as he calls it.
Our meals finished, J returns, menu in hand. I don't hear his query at first, concentrating as I am on the half-empty bottle of ketchup which has been, incredibly, left turned upside down on it's cap.
"...dessert?" J's jovial voice breaks through the fog of war, and I quickly reassert my command of the situation, demanding to see the menu. Despite the wavering of my companions, I confidently accept J's suggestions of the "Schammy," which quickly arrives.
It is beautiful. Fully five warm chocolate cookies anchor the monstrosity, while vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, bits of Snickers bars and chocolate sauce adorn the dish. Hesitantly, my compaions began to spoon at the mixture, while I confidently tuck in.
The dish nearly gone, J returns, impressed with my appetitie. Though A and B begin to flag, I push on, finally devouring the final mouthful. Pulling out my well-worn platinum credit card, I am proud of what I have accomplished.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
