By D.A.
OK, enough with the chain restaurants already. No, really, enough. I beg of you. Applebee’s, Chili’s, Ruby Tuesday, Red Lobster, Darryl’s, T.G.I.Fridays … the list goes on and on, and so does the endless supply of subpar, pre-cooked slop they serve. Here’s the menu to any of these places, condensed into a single phrase: Some kind of faggy “poppers” made with military-surplus materials, followed by a type of mushy pasta with stringy chicken and a cream sauce fresh from the can, and a dessert of Chocolate [fill in the second half of name with something cutesy, like Thunder, Death, Overload, TittyPunch, whatever]. Beautiful, huh?
I never, and I mean never, eat in these joints unless I absolutely have to. Like about a year ago, I was trapped in the mall for Christmas shopping and my crew was hungry. Slim pickings in the mall, of course, so we go to an Applebee’s or some shit like that. Holy irritated colon, Batman. It was roughly $15 for a truly disgusting cheesesteak with even worse fries. The Coke I had to drink was the meal’s highlight. God bless Coca-Cola conglomerate and all its mighty subsidiaries. May they prosper and grow fat with American dollars for many years to come. (I’m being a little facetious here, but really, Coke used to have cocaine in it back in the day. How badass is that?)
What was really disturbing to me, though, was the sight of all those hicks wolfing this shit down like it was high cuisine, some of them obviously dressed to kill and coming to this place with reservations for someone’s birthday. Let me repeat that: They had reservations, and they were coming here for someone’s birthday. Jesus, please don’t make me kill again.
That’s not to say I didn’t have reservations as well, but of a completely different kind. I had reservations about ordering food when I saw our 16-year-old, dead-eyed server decked out in a striped (and filthy) polo shirt covered in “flair.” (Thank you, Office Space. I now have a name for this smarmy garbage.) I had reservations about spending $20 for a hamburger. I had reservations about eating the pre-processed muck they set before me with a flourish befitting David Copperfield. Seriously, though, astronauts who have been in space for a year eating nothing but dehydrated turkey-loaf still look at this chain food with a wary eye.
Who are these bumpkins? They plop down at the table and order some second-rate cut of steak, covered in shit-sauce, burnt to a crisp (“cuz I don’t lahk that rare meat”), and served sizzling in an iron skillet. First of all, why go to Chili’s to eat steak? You could cook a nice steak at home for less than half the price, or go to a good steakhouse for about the same cost as Chili’s will charge you for their detention-facility-quality meat-wad. (No offense meant to my homey Meatwad from “Aqua Teen Hunger Force.” That little bastard’s hilarious, and I love him deeply.)
Secondly, anyone who knows anything about anything (how’s that for generalizing?) will tell you not to cook steak above medium. Anything more and it’s the consistency of shoe leather with, oddly enough, about the same taste. Only rednecks and germophobes eat well-done steak. Just don’t do it. And finally, only the French put weird sauce on a steak, and that’s usually because the “steak” is from a horse. Also, I think they whack off in the sauce if it’s an American ordering the food. Goddamn frogs.
If you’re one of the unfortunate souls who like eating food that tastes like it was rolled off the line in Detroit, you’re probably mad at me. You’re probably calling me a “fag” and a “pussy” and “uppity sissy,” and your overalls are probably caked with that special kind of shit that only a good rage brings. But really, I’m no gourmet with a palate of gold. I’ve eaten a half-raw potato cooked in the microwave and covered in yellow mustard and A-1 sauce. I’ve eaten days-old pizza crusts barely heated and dipped in butter mixed with cinnamon and sugar. I’ve eaten undercooked chicken, overcooked beef, and fish sticks that were still a little icy in the middle. I’ve eaten hot dogs, for Christ’s sake, honest-to-goodness hot dogs.
But you chain-restaurant people, you people are the lowest of the low. You’re the ones who go to Olive Garden and then talk about “Italian food” (which, by the way, is the equivalent of going to see Pirates of the Caribbean and claiming that you’re in the Navy). You’ll put your greasy hair back in a ponytail, cover your neck tattoo (Chinese character for “strength”) with some of your 14-year-old wife’s concealer, put on a black shirt with some black jeans and black Reeboks, and you’re ready for some fine dinin’.
Well, you go right ahead and enjoy all o’ them there cardboard vittles. You won’t even have to worry about getting in line behind me. While you’re waiting like a salivating dog for the little pager the restaurant gives you to light up as they announce, “Bumpkin, party of 8!”—I’ll be at home enjoying some half-frozen fish sticks and a potato.
Enjoy your free order of Chocolate TittyPunch for meemaw’s birthday, you fuckers.