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 took today off, for no particular reason, and after we
delivered the Secrets to the local indoctrination centers, the two of us
went to breakfast.
Our usual destination is Waffle House, but I had some recent trouble
there and I’m kinda soured on the place. They double-charged my ATM
card a few weeks back, and it took multiple phone conversations with a
woman whose voice sounded like the latter-day Babe Ruth, to get it all
straightened out.And I can’t
have that.I go to Waffle House
for glistening “breakfast meats,” not terrifying relationships.
I suggested a little diner down the road, and Toney groaned.Once again.You see,
I’ve suggested this restaurant many times before, and her reaction is
always the same: a groan.One of
her friends said the place is constantly full of cigarette smoke, and
you come out of there smelling like you “spent the day in a bingo
parlor.” Always a bingo parlor.
Plus, my wife has a low-tolerance for small town cliques, and that sort
of thing.It pisses her off.So she steers clear of places where the longtime locals
congregate, and this is definitely one of them.You get the feeling everyone in the joint went to grade school
together, back during the Warren G. Harding administration.
But I like that kind of thing, and gently insisted.I’d been there alone several times, and the food is excellent.The fact that we’ll still be outsiders even if we live here for
forty years doesn’t detract from the quality of the bacon.Why sweat the small stuff?
So that’s where we went.We
took a booth as deep inside the non-smoking section as possible, and
told the waitress we’d both have coffee, thank you very much.
It’s a great place.It’s been
around since the 1960s, I think, and I doubt much has changed in
that time.There are individual
jukebox terminals at every table, but they probably haven’t worked
since I was in Little League.In
fact, the one at our table this morning was soldered by the years, and you
couldn’t flip the pages inside.Our
best bet, as far as I could tell, would’ve been “Candida” by Tony
Orlando and Dawn.
The walls are covered in dark paneling, and on top of that: framed
pictures, many with autographs and praise of the eggs. They have Kramer
up there, Jesus (not signed),
a few unknown NASCAR drivers, customers in wacky hats, etc.And way up near the ceiling, in the center of the back wall (a
place of obvious reverence), is a formal portrait of John F. Kennedy.
Toney
went with a bacon and cheese omelet, and an order of hash browns with
onions (yum), and I opted for the breakfast sampler.It was scrambled eggs, bacon, two sausage patties, and three
slices of French toast, all for $4.75.
While we waited on our food to arrive, we took in the ambience.And by ambience, of course, I mean the people.We were children compared with the general clientele, and many of
our fellow breakfast-eaters were all gnarled up, probably with Jap
shrapnel buried in them somewhere.Some
had to basically just tuck a fork into a crevice at the
end of their arm, and go to town.
A man seated at the counter went off on a frenzied coughing jag shortly
after we arrived, and was still going strong when we left.Straight into his pie.I was worried he was about to go down (or start puking), but
nobody else seemed to notice.
Everyone in the house was talking real loud (needless to say), and if
you concentrated you could eavesdrop on a whole host of conversations.Two women across the aisle were discussing a granddaughter, and
her lifelong dream to be a nurse. And
a man I never actually saw was railing against tattoos and people with
multiple piercings.“Some of them even have stuff pierced down
there,” he said with a shudder.
Highly entertaining.
Supposedly the owners of this place have some sort of axe to grind with
school teachers, and if they know you are one, forget about being
served.That’s the word on the street anyway.They reportedly believe teachers are more dedicated to their
union than to the children, and have a wild hair up their ass about it.Oh, it’s quite a rich tapestry….
And the food is nothing short of great, far superior to Awful House.Actually, I like Awful House as well, but this place is even
better.Toney even had to agree.And while there were some tired-looking people swigging cigs on
the other side of the room, I never caught wind of it.Another myth busted.
I love little diners, and shady dive bars.And that's the reason for this late update.
