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Oh Please, Let My Mother Pay

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People who use gift cards on a date

People who will be married before age 58

A few weeks ago, I was out having a nice dinner next to one of those couples who you can tell was on a first date. It was likely a blind date, too, or it was about to be a blind date because the woman was trying to stab her eyes out with her salad fork. I think it’s safe to say it was not going well.

The guy was doing most of the talking because, on a blind date, the less attractive of the two people always does the talking. He was talking about his job, how stupid his co-workers are, how brilliant his ideas are, where he had traveled (Sandals), and all sorts of things someone in solitary confinement would find interesting.

They enjoyed dinner, dessert, and finally coffee. Then the bill came. Phase one of date from hell began: the guy didn’t touch the bill. Not one iota of trying to pick that little folder up. The waitress appropriately put the bill exactly in the middle of the table, and there it awkwardly sat as he went on talking and she went on nodding, silently committing seppuku behind her napkin.
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Finally, after about 3 minutes, he announces loudly enough for several tables to hear, “let me get this one, I have a gift card.” He proceeded to pay for the entire meal with his “AutoCAD Drafter of the Month” winnings from work. I think what is more embarrassing than using a gift card to help pay for a $150 dinner is using a gift card to pay for the entire meal. What kind of person has a $200 gift card for a restaurant?

I’m seeing more and more snafus as the world gets more “progressive”, but guys not paying for dates is just a little too much of a glimpse into the complete absence of happiness in a marriage. Keep your [gift] cards closer to your chest, guys.

October 2, 2008 | Filed Under food and eating | Leave a Comment 

Free lunch people

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People who love free lunch at the office (or anywhere)

People who are not strangely obsessed with saving $6

So this one is a real wonder of mine. What in the hell is so great about free lunch? Why, when the foil feeding trays of man slop roll in, does the office go abuzz?
freelunch
Hello, Darling. I know you are condiment-less, but I want you and know you come with a dried-out oatmeal cookie.

I might not know much in this world, but I do know that I have never had a free lunch that didn’t taste like my desk:

  • Pizza: it is impossible to bake 30 pizzas and then deliver them without them looking like a Salvador Dali painting. I do not like my pizza rare. I do not like “crust” that takes the shape of my fingers as I hold a slice. I do not like digging the cheese off of the box top and re-adhering it to the semi-cooked dough. FAIL
  • Sandwiches: I subscribe to the idea that I would never eat at a restaurant that makes the same things I make at home. Sandwiches, by and large fall into this category. Sub sandwiches, rubens, melts, etc. are things I probably don’t make at home, so I’m fine with that, but if you slap sliced meats on a bagel or white bread, you deserve to go out of business. If you serve said sandwich without condiments, you deserve to also be slapped. And if you put one of those tomato slices that has the green, hard center that is going to make one of my teeth come out when I eat it, you deserve to be jailed.
  • Tacos / BBQ: You might as well put a stick of food dynamite on our computers and notepads. There is no situation where BBQ or tacos make any sense inside of a work environment. I don’t enjoy eating cold dog ribs dipped in KC Masterpiece. And I especially don’t enjoy trying to write on a taco-meat soaked legal pad or type with my grease fingers.

So the food is bad, the experience is bad, the savings are minimal, and you don’t get out of the office for a midday break. I really cannot see a positive.

Let me know what you think on this one. Are you a free lunch lover? What are you going to do with your $36 you saved this year?

October 1, 2008 | Filed Under at work, food and eating | Leave a Comment 

Going to the Zoo at 2 AM

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Smothered: People who go to Waffle House at 2 A.M.

Covered : People who go to Waffle House at 2 A.M. for the spectacle

In honor of recent nighttime activities (woah there, cowboy), I feel the need to address this topic, and there’s no better day than a Friday since it’s either fresh in your minds or will be happening tonight. Of course, I’m talking about the 2 AM visit to Waffle House.

If you’re not an Atlantan or a southerner, this might not hit home with you, but I’m sure there’s some place that you can eat breakfast at 2 AM (or a 1/4” thick steak, if you so choose) in your neck of the woods. If there isn’t an establishment like this near you, find 6 people with 9 teeth and great personalities and teach them how to cook an omelette. Instant financial success.

Waffle House at 2 AM is proof that God exists. What other explanation could there possibly be for the shear joy of this collection of people, specifically created for our enjoyment? Now, don’t confuse this for being condescending. I am not going that direction here: I think that these are some of the nicest and most interesting people I have ever met, but it is truly an amazing sight to see the carnies, gangstas, frat boys, and goths (I thought they closed the Hot Topic stores in the mall?) all in one place, enjoying food and each other, likely under the influence of no less than 2 substances of choice. It is a picture of God’s harmony (minus the substance abuse part).

On my most recent visit, a friend of mine and I chose the WaHo on Northside, which is built into a Days Inn. Naturally, this heightens the experience, sort of like a bar that’s built inside a pool: the complementary forces of these two establishments create a whole greater than its parts. Anyhow, we walk in and I immediately recognize the hostess/watiress/chef (everyone here can do everything) from the Pharr Rd. location. We point at each other with that “I know you from somewhere else” look and figure it out after a few seconds. Now, in most situations, the people that work at Waffle House have seen too many people to remember any one of them, but Shayna and I have a unique experience together that created a lasting bond (again, woah cowboy), which I share with you now:

About a year ago, another friend of mine and I were at the Pharr Rd location and we were about to give our orders when the gin started doing the talking: I asked Shayna for the phone number of that location. She gave it to me and I immediately pulled out my phone and dialed while she started taking my friend’s order. The cook standing by the phone answered and I asked (behind a cupped hand over my mouth), “Can I please speak to Shayna?”

“Shayna. Phone call for you.” says the cook.

“Hang on guys.” She walks over to the phone. “Hello?”

“um yeah, I’d like to go ahead and place my order,” I say. “I’ll take the Texas Cheesesteak Pla–”

“Excuse me . . . Sir,” she interrupts, “are you coming in to pick this up?”

“No, I’m already here.”

Then it hits her like a man wearing a tank-top. She looks over and sees my dumb ass grin and the phone on the side of my head. I say “you ready?” into the phone, and she hangs up in humored-disgust.

This is one of my favorite Waffle House experiences, and one that has earned me very fast service and food that looks almost as orderly on my plate as it does in the pictures on the menu.

The Northside visit that night didn’t disappoint, either. While most of the action was away from our table, it was priceless. We watched an insanely tall black man wearing shirt reminiscent of the pattern on Fruit Stripe Gum walk the parking lot security guy though each of the 600 features of his BMW 328i convertible. Just watching this praying mantis of a man get in and out of this car was enough, but the level to which the security guy was impressed with the visor lights and the size of the trunk was equally entertaining. There could have been a murder right behind him, but he wasn’t going to take his attention off of the rain-sensing windshield wipers. Funny enough, my friend and I actually thought this guy was in trouble when we first noticed this going on. He was emptying his trunk out onto the curb while the security guy held up a flashlight. The search for contraband continued until we realized the contraband was just vehicle features.

So thank you to those who enrich my life with your presence here on earth and your presence in Waffle House. I’m not sure what compels you to go there at those hours (do you think there’s a carnie blog about the ridiculous kids in their polo shirts calling the waitresses?), but thank you and please keep doing it. See you next week.

P.S. No. You don’t take pictures of this. You’ll just frack up the whole chi of the situation. Moments like these were meant to enjoy in person, and to those who photograph Waffle House, shame on you. If you need photographic evidence to convince other people of what you saw or encourage them to go, they’re not worth your time and should not be your friend. Dump the baggage.

September 19, 2008 | Filed Under food and eating | Leave a Comment 

When You Eat, I Can't

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Dre: People who always eat in a way other people find revolting

Eminem: People who occasionally eat in a way other people find revolting

Do you have any friends who bring out the best in your gag reflex when they eat? You know, I’m talking about the people who chew with their mouthes open, get a meat ‘n 3 and blend it all together, or worse yet, the people who become food cannons when they talk to you? Some people are just disgusting when they sit down for a meal, and that’s what makes the rest of us genetically superior, right?

We are more refined. We don’t sip on our straw after a fresh mouthful of mashed potatoes, at best case leaving a globule of starch on the end of the straw and worst case starting a spud titration in our beverage. We chew enough times to avoid a choking hazard, have a sip of our drinks; maybe have a short talk with food perched on the end of our forks before continuing. Sneaking food into our mouthes during long vowels in the midst of conversation is not abiding by the rules, so we’re not going to do it. When someone asks us a question while we’re eating, we put up a “1 second” finger and bug our eyes out, feigning embarrassment, but again not breaking simple etiquette.

There are also those people who talk with their mouthes full, but do so behind the magic finger curtain (people who “cover” their mouthes so you can’t see the cud while they’re explaining something to you). They think they’re following the rules, but with any imagination and 20/20 vision, you can imagine what’s going on behind those fingers and often see some mouth confetti falling out under the hand of deception. Please stop this terrible practice. Often enough, people don’t give a damn what you have to say in the first place, and they’re certainly not hearing you when you use your food blast shield.

But is it really true the rest of us abide by this high standard all of the time? What about those meals where you’re home alone or just grabbing a snack at the mall? I know that’s when I break down:

I’ve recently taken to the European phenomenon of eating my fries with mayonnaise. To most red-blooded and red-condimented Americans, this is already a class 1 offense, but in my most private fry-eating moments, particularly with high surface area papas fritas like those available at Chick-Fil-A, I have begun doing direct package-to-fry condiment distribution. As if sopping up mayo in the grid of a waffle fry wasn’t disgusting enough, people have to watch me squeeze my pillow of flavor onto this fry like it’s toothpaste, and yes, I can feel the eyes. It’s particularly bad when I don’t get a clean tear on the corner and an entire side of the packet is open like a nasty wound. Then it gets really messy. I do want to tell these people that I’m not normally like this, but by that time the fry is in the mouth, and the ritual has begun on another. I can’t help myself, and I can’t stop.

So I guess the moral of the story is that while I am clearly more refined than most others (just look at the evidence, people), I can slum it from time to time. Much like how I am intimately familiar with black struggles in America because I occasionally spin some hip hop, I can relate to our bad habited brethren because I do let my hair down. It’s not something I’m always proud of, but I do my best to stay in touch with all reaches of humanity.

What is your “out of body” habit?

p.s. – I can’t say that my goal in this wasn’t to make you puke. Now you know how I feel.

September 18, 2008 | Filed Under food and eating | Leave a Comment 

Solomon and Salsa

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Solids: People who eat the last chip

Stripes: People who break the last chip in half

I have to admit: I am a chip breaker. I will keep breaking that last chip in half until I get to the molecular level, and I’m not sorry about this. The way I see it, as long as I keep breaking the chip, I’m giving the waiter enough time to come by and offer one of the many questions in life people never say no to: “More chips?” This question has good company with “More money?”, “More sex?”, and “Less Barbara Walters?”. In fact, questions like these are so obvious, I’m not even sure why they’re even asked.

On the other hand, nobody likes the guy who takes the last chip. I use “guy” here purposefully: people hate the guy who obnoxiously takes the last chip, but they just feel sorry for the girl who does, unless she’s hot. Some might call this sexist, but we all know who those people are.

Taking the last chip says a lot about someone (or maybe it just says one of many things, including):

  • “I threw a winning touchdown pass in a varsity football game and won regionals, bitch.”
  • “I am accomplished in my career: I manage no less than five people who hate their lives as a direct result of my personality.”
  • “I am a suburban mom and will eat all of these chips just to piss my husband off until my next glass of Chardonnay gets to the table. Oooh, that waiter is cute.”

I think it’s relatively accurate to say if you’ve found someone who is a last chip eater, you’ve found an asshole. Many of the world’s problems are directly caused by last chip eaters. You can probably even identify the type just thinking about it:

Gengis Khan – last chip
Mohandas Ghandi – chip breaker
Dick Cheney – last chip
Barack Obama – chip breaker
Hilary Clinton – last chip
Jon Stewart – chip breaker
Bill Maher – last chip
Tiger Woods – chip breaker
Phil Mickelson – last chip
John Daly – just drinks the cheese dip
Jesus – fed 50 people with one fish, what do you think?

Among friends, the dynamic can be a little different. Last chip eating can happen, but it doesn’t happen without a call-out. Sometimes there’s an offer: “do you want the last chip?” No, you fat ass. You don’t mean that. Just eat it. I think that situations like these can be life-enriching, but don’t try to take this practice out of your circle of friends: you’ll just look like a jerk.

I grew up with a last chip eater in the house. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

September 12, 2008 | Filed Under food and eating | Leave a Comment 

Spooning is still inappropriate touching

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Dog: People who “spoon” their dips

Cat: People who dip directly in the bowl

Lately, I’ve seen more of this “courtesy” extended among groups of diners: people picking up their spoons or (worse yet) the spoon provided with their dips, using it to distribute their flavored fats onto their salty carbs rather than direct-dipping said carbs into said fats. I think that people who offer this service to their tablemates really feel good about themselves, and truthfully, we’re probably not that far from the Brownies and Eagle Scouts issuing some sort of accomplishment patches associated with this type of dining “best practice”.

But the spooners are quickly disappointed by the inevitable direct-dippers that sit beside or across from them. And they show it. Usually when some maverick direct-dipper draws out a portion of the dip, the spooner(s) will hover their spoon over the spinach concoction and just watch the DDer put that chip in their stupid little faces, hoping that the stare alone is enough to change the behavior. It isn’t.

Eventually, one of the blissfully unaware office mates or family members at the table will notice the spooner’s rising temperature and ask what is wrong. Since the attention has already been drawn, the spooner can no longer hold in his anger: “Well, Pam (or other typical blissfully unaware name), Tim here is dipping his chips directly into the bowl while the rest of us are politely spooning our dips onto our plates.” And so begins one of the most classic restaurant dialogues of our time:

DDer: “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize that was bothering you, John. I’ll . . .”

Spooner: “Well it IS bothering me. It’s bothering all of us!”

DD: “Is it bothering you, Pam?”

[Pam hangs her head, trying stay out of it and revealing the surprising thinness of her red, permed hair]

DD: “How about you, Steve?”

[Steve quickly draws from the straw in his Diet Coke, looking over the rim of his glass toward the kitchen]

DD: “Well, I guess it’s not that big of a deal, but if you’re going to be a dick about it, I’ll just use the spoon”

S: “Oh, sure. Start spooning the dip now, after it’s already too late. Just great. Just GREAT.”

The spooner puts down the spoon and stops eating the dip: an act of shear will. The DD spoons some on to his 3” plate and starts trying to get it on to the chip, but he’s just pushing the dip around the plate in circles.

DD: “How the fuck are you even supposed to do this? I can’t even get the dip onto the chip. This is ridiculous.”

S: “Like this.” Spooner pushes the dip onto his chip with the spoon, and then scoops some sour cream with the same spoon to put on the chip.

DD: “Oh well shit, John, now you’ve gone and contaminated the sour cream with spinach dip. Well engineered solution you have there.”

At this point, silence usually falls over the group as the table members start to use knives, forks, and other utensils to distribute their dips, cleaning after each use over the paranoia of cross-contamination. The dip plate starts to look like a fondue pot with 37 pieces of silverware hanging to its edges. Eventually, the DD just picks up his chip and goes for the direct method once again. The rest of the table follows.

So the lesson here is that spoon dipping is a farce. Bowls were engineered for dipping; 3” saucers were engineered for staying stacked on the edge of the table. Offer the contamination-obsessed the option of buying their own dips because things are going to get a little crazy at TGI Friday’s, and there’s nothing you can do about it. In there, it’s always Friday.

- F I N -

September 9, 2008 | Filed Under food and eating | Leave a Comment 

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