Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
Toney's mother, Sunshine, gave us a $35 Chili's gift card for Christmas.
She might've given us other stuff as well, but who the hell knows? It's
all a blur, a great big blur.
I can only remember visiting a Chili's once before. It was in Atlanta ,
I think, back before I met Toney. I'm picturing it way out Roswell Road
somewhere, possibly even (gasp!) outside the perimeter, in the
parking lot of a Kroger store. But my memory is quite dim about that as
well. The only thing I can recall clearly is that I didn't like it very
well.
But that was what, fifteen years ago? Back then I was probably
intimidated by the exotic southwestern fare they serve. What the shit
is a fuh-jeeta?? But, you know, I'm always ready to give it another
try. Always ready.
And on Sunday Toney suggested we go to Wilkes-Barre to pick up a few
items at a store there, then have a late lunch on Sunshine. Sounded like
a fine idea to me.
When we walked in, there were two teenage girls standing near the door,
each sporting the universal teenage girl disgusted-with-it-all
expression. Presumably they were hostesses, but they didn't say
anything. They just looked at us, waiting for us to speak. No
"Welcome to Chili's," no nothing.
"Um, would it be alright if we eat here?" I said, a bit
smart-assed. But, of course, it's never a good idea to mock or ridicule
the folks who will soon be handling your food, so I kept a lid on it.
After begrudgingly asking if we'd prefer smoking or non-smoking, she
took off with a stack of menus. Apparently we were supposed to follow
her, so we did. Toney looked back at me while we were walking, and shot
me a laser-guided "I'm about to kill this bitch." And I just
smiled back at her.
We were seated in a small alcove, near all the other people with kids.
Our boys are pretty big now, but it doesn't matter, especially to a
teenager. Just stick 'em all together, and they can throw macaroni
'n' cheese at each other. Screw 'em.
Before I'd completely wedged my heft into the boof that was presumably
designed for tiny Japanese people, a sashaying gay man in his early
twenties was there, talking to us like we were patients in a nursing
home. "Well, how are we today?" he said, all sing-songy and
deeply concerned about our welfare.
He took our drink orders, and swished with
great energy around a wooden partition, his feet barely touching the
floor as he walked. It looked like he was just gliding across the
carpet.
I watched this amazing spectacle unfold, then turned back to my menu. I
knew better than to make eye-contact with the Secrets, because they
surely would've started laughing. And I try not to encourage such
things. Sometimes.
I didn't see anything on any of the "leather" encased pages
that sounded even remotely interesting to me. I didn't want a burger, or
anything like that, and most of the entrees featured at least one
ingredient that automatically disqualified it. Like garlic or guacamole
or any of the novelty mayonnaises.
I decided to play it safe, and just go with chicken tacos. Both
Secrets wanted ribs, and Toney said she was planning to order some sort
of quesadilla deal. I just don't know.
Our waiter floated back with our drinks, and I noticed that whenever he
spoke he tilted his head to one side. It would remain upright until he
opened his mouth, then everything would ratchet off to the left. I
watched him conversing with other patrons as well, and it was always the
same. I wondered aloud if he was unable to speak with his head straight
up-and-down, perhaps as the result of a catastrophic windpipe injury or
something. <Insert own joke here.>
After that it was difficult for any of us to keep a straight face. He
was very attentive, and checked back often. And his head would instantly
default to a 45-degree angle. I warned the Secrets, but it was all they
could do not to snicker openly. We started calling him the Sideways
Talker.
My tacos looked OK when he brought them out, three of them all snuggled
together beside a small bowl of black beans. But it turned out to be 90%
lettuce. I'm not joking, it was even worse than Subway, who are famous
for selling six dollar lettuce sandwiches to an unsuspecting
(suspecting?) public. It was just three tortillas piled up with lettuce,
three or four hunks of tomato, a dusting of neon orange cheese, a squirt
of salsa or somesuch, and a couple of soppy, gray-ass pieces of
"chicken" in the bottom. A pathetic excuse for a taco.
But without prompting, Toney said her meal was really good, and the boys
didn't seem to be having any trouble with theirs either. I didn't want
to be a wet blanket (ahem), so I just swallowed my many complaints,
along with all that lettuce. Sweet Jesus, the lettuce.
A woman and a ten year old girl stood up to leave, and both immediately
plucked their asses, like they'd just arrived at a rest area along an
interstate highway. The girl tugged creeping fabric out of her crack
very near my face, as I was lifting food to my mouth.
Ahhhh, the ambience....
The first taco disappeared without incident, but the second one
collapsed completely. I picked it up, and the entire bottom fell out of
it. I was left with shredded produce, pinched between two halves of a
ripped and wet tortilla. All the stuff inside was now on the edge of my
plate, and/or the table. Grrrr....
By this time Toney had adopted a look of distress. She said, "This
was good for a few minutes, but now it's not so good anymore." I
was worried we might be seeing those quesadillas again, but everything
worked out in our favor.
The Secrets said their ribs "rocked," so at least they were
happy. And I gave the Sideways Poofter a seven dollar tip, so maybe he
was satisfied as well. But me and Toney? Not so much. As chain
restaurants go, I'd have to rate Chili's down near Bennigan's, way at
the bottom of the list. In fact, it might be another fifteen years
before I return.
Oh, and for the record.... Don Pablo's and TGI Friday's are at the TOP
of my mega-chain list. Both are surprisingly good. What do you think?
What's best and worst, in your opinion? Use the comments link below.
And tomorrow I might write a 1500 word essay on oats, or possibly fabric
softener.
--
Toney's mother, Sunshine, gave us a $35 Chili's gift card for Christmas.
She might've given us other stuff as well, but who the hell knows? It's
all a blur, a great big blur.