NotHardUp1
What? Me? Really?
Tonight I felt lazy, and uncharacteristically, decided I'd eat dinner out. I rarely go out weeknights, half because I'm tired, and half because the traffic on the main roads to my neighborhood stay full until after six. I rise early, so don't eat late or stay up late.
So, I put back on street clothes after six and headed to Texas Whorehouse, where I often get a Porterhouse, but felt more like country fried sirloin. They were moderately busy for a Wed. night, about 85% full. My server was a great young gal which made it all a pleasure. She convinced me the pork chops were going to be better, so I ordered them with a garden salad and green beans. The rolls were much better than usual, and the tea was perfect.
Ahead of me, in the next booth, sat two men, around 40, neither sporting a wedding band. The one facing me talked loud and excited, loud enough to be heard outside almost. He was either hard of hearing, obliviously unaware of his voice, or a couple of sheets to the wind. He didn't act sloshed though. He was frizzy haired, medium build, undistinguished face, with a receding hairline. Dressed not to notice.
Across from him with his back to me was a man who was lean, trim haircut, fine fingers, wary peripheral vision, and long bones. His shirt was short-sleeved rayon, covered in large pink and yellow line drawn daisies, covered partially with a black Ororo vest. His shoulders were narrow, as if he had been born prematurely. I'd put $20 down on pink that he was gay, whether he was out or not. I could hear little of what he said, but enough to tell that he was not stupid like his buddy.
The blowhard, we'll just call him Mr. B., was a walking, talking MAGAtard cliche. I wasn't sure why he spoke so loud. The room was loud, and we were in the bar, but he was louder than the din by several notches, especially to be speaking to a man less than three feet from his face at a two-top booth. He seemed excited. Could have been his friend was listening to him, and that may have been rare, or he could also be gay but deep in the closet. Mr. B. was either a defense contractor or maybe even a government employee like DCAA or DCMA.
He was going on about the Iran War and you could tell he was hyped by it. Obviously thrilled by the conquering bit. Opined about the Strait of Hormuz. Opined about everything we were doing there. His prattle was peppered with emphatic "BRO" and "DUDE" and "Look it up!"
Their drinks arrived. I prayed for their food so his mouth would have something else to do, but in vain. The rolls came. He went on. And on. The Daisy-ist said little but was engaged. Bowls of chili arrived. Had no idea Texas Whorehouse even served chili. Grabbed my menu. Yep. Cup $4.99, Bowl $5.99. They didn't seem like guys to be cheaping out with an appetizer and rolls.
Then their steaks arrived, a filet, and I'm not sure what the Blow had. His ramble moved on to Ben Shapiro, Mark Rubio, Piers Morgan, Carlson, and Haley. It was a veritable rogues gallery of the right. My pork chop was delicious, but thick, so I only tried to eat one. The green beans were cooked to a fare-thee-well, but I ate them dutifully. I was determined to enjoy my meal and not get riled and tell the B-hard how much I wish he could go to Iran and show them himself.
I stared intently at the big flat panels above the bar circling it over our heads. Baseball, and other meaningless guy stuff. It was a ploy, as I did so to appear uninterested in anyone around me, but I had to turn sideways to do so, which turned an ear to the chat.
After my server brought me a takeout box and bag, she returned after another ten minutes and gave me my check. She went off again, and I scanned down it. No detail, and it had a place for the tip, so didn't seem right since she hadn't taken my debit card yet. I read down to the due amount. $153.27. My, those good pork chops are hard to come by.
Calling her back, I said, "SOMEBODY got a good deal if my pork chops cost $153!" Guessed she had just given the wrong parties the wrong receipts. No, she just printed the wrong one off at the register. I was good humored about it and still gave her a generous tip for her excellent service. And, I slipped away with my leftovers without speaking to the gents ahead of me. Mission Accomplished.
What about you? Any adventures in dining you'd like to share? It seems like a topic lots of us can write about, and every one a different story.
Tell.
So, I put back on street clothes after six and headed to Texas Whorehouse, where I often get a Porterhouse, but felt more like country fried sirloin. They were moderately busy for a Wed. night, about 85% full. My server was a great young gal which made it all a pleasure. She convinced me the pork chops were going to be better, so I ordered them with a garden salad and green beans. The rolls were much better than usual, and the tea was perfect.
Ahead of me, in the next booth, sat two men, around 40, neither sporting a wedding band. The one facing me talked loud and excited, loud enough to be heard outside almost. He was either hard of hearing, obliviously unaware of his voice, or a couple of sheets to the wind. He didn't act sloshed though. He was frizzy haired, medium build, undistinguished face, with a receding hairline. Dressed not to notice.
Across from him with his back to me was a man who was lean, trim haircut, fine fingers, wary peripheral vision, and long bones. His shirt was short-sleeved rayon, covered in large pink and yellow line drawn daisies, covered partially with a black Ororo vest. His shoulders were narrow, as if he had been born prematurely. I'd put $20 down on pink that he was gay, whether he was out or not. I could hear little of what he said, but enough to tell that he was not stupid like his buddy.
The blowhard, we'll just call him Mr. B., was a walking, talking MAGAtard cliche. I wasn't sure why he spoke so loud. The room was loud, and we were in the bar, but he was louder than the din by several notches, especially to be speaking to a man less than three feet from his face at a two-top booth. He seemed excited. Could have been his friend was listening to him, and that may have been rare, or he could also be gay but deep in the closet. Mr. B. was either a defense contractor or maybe even a government employee like DCAA or DCMA.
He was going on about the Iran War and you could tell he was hyped by it. Obviously thrilled by the conquering bit. Opined about the Strait of Hormuz. Opined about everything we were doing there. His prattle was peppered with emphatic "BRO" and "DUDE" and "Look it up!"
Their drinks arrived. I prayed for their food so his mouth would have something else to do, but in vain. The rolls came. He went on. And on. The Daisy-ist said little but was engaged. Bowls of chili arrived. Had no idea Texas Whorehouse even served chili. Grabbed my menu. Yep. Cup $4.99, Bowl $5.99. They didn't seem like guys to be cheaping out with an appetizer and rolls.
Then their steaks arrived, a filet, and I'm not sure what the Blow had. His ramble moved on to Ben Shapiro, Mark Rubio, Piers Morgan, Carlson, and Haley. It was a veritable rogues gallery of the right. My pork chop was delicious, but thick, so I only tried to eat one. The green beans were cooked to a fare-thee-well, but I ate them dutifully. I was determined to enjoy my meal and not get riled and tell the B-hard how much I wish he could go to Iran and show them himself.
I stared intently at the big flat panels above the bar circling it over our heads. Baseball, and other meaningless guy stuff. It was a ploy, as I did so to appear uninterested in anyone around me, but I had to turn sideways to do so, which turned an ear to the chat.
After my server brought me a takeout box and bag, she returned after another ten minutes and gave me my check. She went off again, and I scanned down it. No detail, and it had a place for the tip, so didn't seem right since she hadn't taken my debit card yet. I read down to the due amount. $153.27. My, those good pork chops are hard to come by.
Calling her back, I said, "SOMEBODY got a good deal if my pork chops cost $153!" Guessed she had just given the wrong parties the wrong receipts. No, she just printed the wrong one off at the register. I was good humored about it and still gave her a generous tip for her excellent service. And, I slipped away with my leftovers without speaking to the gents ahead of me. Mission Accomplished.
What about you? Any adventures in dining you'd like to share? It seems like a topic lots of us can write about, and every one a different story.
Tell.
