My evening in Hell at The Brokeback Bar and Grill
(O.K., not quite Dachau but I shoulda stayed home.)
I knew things were going in the shitter when the Ol' Lady's cell rang and part of the conversation was "45 min to an hour wait." I have a rule of thumb about restaurants, "No one's food but my own is so fucking good as to have to spend an hour rubbing assholes and elbows with the living dead in the queue." Tonight was NOT the exception to that rule.
No two "steak" joints can agree on what medium is (like good pussy, a good medium steak has a hot, pink center and no blood), and odds are the one I'm at will fuck up a perfectly good piece of over-priced meat, and I hate to piss away $15. I can get two or three identical steaks with my hard-won treasure at the butcher counter at the market for that and cook them correctly at home, imbibing with select friends in quiet and comfort and not jammed up against the unwashed, loud-mouthed masses and their hellish spawn in competition with the shitty selections on the jukebox for most volume.
AND IF I HAVE TO WAIT A FUCKING HOUR TO GET MY FOOD...IT'S BECAUSE I DAMN WELL WANT TO AND NOT BECAUSE OF TEENAGE FUCK-UP COLLEGE KIDS IN THE KITCHEN!!!
I after scanning the menu, I ordered what I thought was the most idiot-proof items I could find, potato skins w/ bacon (for my muslim friends) and cheese, and a cup of "Home-made" chili. Both items came out separately, early, after I specifically told the serving wench "Bring them out with the rest of the meals, not as appetizers." Both were taken back and re-heated instead of being re-prepared.
And as for the "chili"... If it's home-made, it's made at the home of the same guy who cooks up that swill Armour puts in cans and passes off as chili.
Almost forgot about the generic Bloomin' Onion or what the fuck ever they call it that was ordered, forgotten, lied about, quickly prepared, half-cooked and rushed out to the table with a side order of bullshit about "your's was delivered to another table by mistake." My ass... If the Ol' Lady hadn't reminded the serving wench after I told everyone at the table that the above was what happened, we probably never would have seen it.
And now kids, let's take a ride up Brokeback Mounting, er, Mountain...
The birthday boy is gay (If you wanna ride your buddy's saddle, no skin offa my nose, but I don't wanna see the rodeo) and really into the drag-queen scene, and one friend and the Ol' Lady (not so much now) are "drag hags", i.e. drag groupies, so you can guess what a good deal of conversation was about... which queen was in what show, who has what "crown", and how many big gay friends were working at the place, with the occasional "Ohhh, he's cute!!" thrown in.
(Friends husband and I weren't totally deprived though, It was one of the local high school's prom night, so lotsa scantily-clad 17-18 y/o breastages and fine behinds on display. Before you tar and feather me, age of consent in MO. is 17, so the Olsen twins were in season for a whole year here while the rest of you heathens blogged "ONE more year..." so neener, neener, neener)
Anyway, back to the rodeo... After waiting 45 minutes to get jammed into a tiny-ass booth, finding out who was gay and who wasn't, getting a preview of how fucked my dinner was gonna be, we passed the hour between ordering and delivery of dinner with assorted small talk, interrupted occasionally by a would be cheerleader rousing the crowd into a half-assed "Texas-style Yee HAAA for the birthday-boob!!!" and ride on a saddle bolted to a fucking wheeled SAWHORSE, while some poor bastard tries to slide under the table to plot bloody revenge on his "friends".
Eventually they served us (me for the third time), everybody said it was O.K. but not up to usual quality, Friend's Husband's said his was tough and tasted re-heated (prolly prepped too early as well by your local neighborhood kitchen fuck-ups). As I think I mentioned above, an HOUR after ordering and after tables seated after us with bigger parties were served.
Given the fact I KNOW that cruel bitch Fate loves to piss in my Capt. Crunch every chance she gets, I don't know why I never saw the big-assed bowl of crunch berries that was coming to my table until some minion from hell with a lisp plops a 10 year old kid's cowboy hat on B-day boy's head and cheerleader wench is screeching in my ear about "it's your b-day and we're all gonna holler like we have double-digit IQ's and you're gonna ride our idiot-generator on wheels around the place!! Just ignore the luke warm piece of meat you waited an hour for, leave your brain at the table and go do a lap, you can eat your steak cold later!!"
B-day boy waffles between "I wanna eat my dinner" and "OH BOY!! A parade for me!!", Friend is on her feet going "come on, go... you know you wanna go, come on go...", with all the GLAAD-hands in the back ground chanting encouragement, Ol' Lady and Friend's Husband trying to ignore the circus and here I am, stuck in the middle with my .45 trying to figure out if I should shoot them (cheerleading section) or myself.
FINALLY, "dinner" is over, plates cleared and praise be to allah (pork-fat be upon him), the check comes. The FUBAR onion has been deleted, B-day boy's dinner has been comp'ed, and serving wench collects the damage and returns the change, the Ol' Lady sez, "You ready??"...
FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST!! THANK GOD ALMIGHTY, FREE AT LAST!!!
(had to restrain myself from doing a Snoopy Happy Dance on the way out the door and I'm not sure, but I think I might've knocked over a blue-haired old lady with a walker on the way out...)
(To my friends and Ol' Lady, I'm sorry I brought my storm cloud to your picnic, I shoulda known better, I had previous warning and I shoulda stayed home.)
(I'll tackle the "aged", or "seasoned" or whatever they call it when they store a piece of meat, let it rot, excise the decomposed flesh and carve you a big ol' hunk and throw it on the grill and charge you triple 'cause of all the meat they paid for and wasted by letting it rot issue for later. If you want meat as fresh as roadkill, help yourself, but I doubt most of you realize you're gleefully tossing hunks of 2-3 month old rotten corpse down your gullet. I've picked up too many human (and growing up on a farm, bovine and porcine and avian) corpses in various stages of decomposition and had the skin of the lower arms and legs, hands and feet slide off like gloves as I tried to move them into bodybags to eat over-priced rotten meat)