BARF & GRILL

       We had the misfortune to spend three hours at a Bar & Grill in Surprise, Arizona recently, and it’s not a mistake we’ll ever be repeating, unlike the food.
       This joint is the 19^th hole of the golf course at a retirement RV Resort.  Stij and I were doing some remodeling work at one of the homes over there, and because the restaurant was close by, we stopped in.

The place was deserted, so we figured we could get in and out quickly, as we had a great deal of work to do at the site.

“Let’s just get burgers—those will be quick.”

We sat.

We waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, a 120-year-old waitress tottered over to our table, plunked down menus and tottered away to fetch us some ice water while we gave the bill of fare a once-over. 

We both wanted cheeseburgers.

We put the menus down.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Just before we turned to stone, Methuselah’s wife managed to find her way back to us to take our order. She didn’t ask us how we wanted our burgers cooked, and we chalked that up to E Coli fears.  Perhaps they cook them all well-done as a matter of course, we reasoned—some places do.  We normally like them cooked medium, but better to avoid E coli.

So, we waited.

During this wait time, I was able to recite every poem that Poe, Coleridge AND Wordsworth ever wrote.

Finally, the waitress appeared in the distance, headed our way, orders in hand.

“If she moves any slower, people are going to come by and start harvesting her organs,” Stij said.

She put the plates down, then went off to get our French fries.

The burgers were so charred that it seemed more appropriate to pray and scatter their ashes than to consume them.

“How are your burgers?” she asked when she brought the fries.

“Suitable for filling potholes,” I replied.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “Do you want to send them back?”

“Yes, we do, but we’ll just have to eat them.  We don’t have another 45 minutes to wait for replacements.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and wambling off.

“I certainly hope they’re going to adjust our bill—I’d almost rather eat my socks than this.”

“You may want to,” Stij said through his first bite. “You’d like them better.

I took my own bite. “Oh, God!  Pass the ketchup, mustard, relish and anything else I can use to kill the taste.”

Keep in mind that we were paying for this.

Next to visit our table, the ‘chef.’

“Was there a problem with your food?” she asked.

In answer, Stij opened his bun and displayed the blackened hockey puck within.

“How did you want them cooked?” she asked, like this was the only normal way to have them.

“Cooked, yes, cremated, no.”

“Did you tell your waitress how you wanted them done?”

“No, and she didn’t ask.  We assumed that you did everything well-done, not well-beyond-the-pale.  Well-done ought to still have moisture and flavor, yes?”

“Well, sorry.”   Clearly angry, she left.

Apparently, the ‘chef’ then gave the waitress a talking to, because she appeared next.

“Please, if you want your food cooked in a certain way, you need to tell me!’ she exclaimed in an exasperated tone, then huffed away.

I looked at Stij.  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t SHE supposed to ask if we forget to tell her?  And if she doesn’t ask, isn’t the ‘chef’ supposed to send her back to find out, rather than take a wild guess that burned shoe leather would be the way to go?”

“Yep.  Apparently, this is all our fault.”

“What’d we ever do to them?  Jesus, if our experience is any indication, they seem to hate their customers here, don’t they?”

“Evidently, we interrupted their nap time and everyone is a little bit cranky,” Stij said. “We just won’t come back here again.”

“I don’t even want to drive by here again!”

Next, we got the bill.

No adjustment. 

We paid $20 for awful food that would be reminding us of the experience for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, until we got home and slugged down some bicarb.

While we watched a movie that later that night, Stij said, “I’ll say one thing for that restaurant, though.”

“Really? And what's that?”

“It makes your cooking look pretty damned good.”

I’d have smacked him if it hadn’t been true.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FUNERALS, CHOREOGRAPHY, AND A GOOD, STIFF DRINK

      Before I begin, I should tell you that I’m from New England originally—home of decorum, keeping yourself to yourself, and not posting details about every bowel movement on Facebook.

     I also grew up in the funeral biz.  My dad owned a funeral home and was a funeral director as well as an embalmer—so I understood it pretty well, plus I’ve attended a few funerals in my time.

     Arizona, I discovered, is an entirely different world when it comes to what I had previously regarded as a solemn, and yes, respectful occasion.

     I attended the funeral of the wife of a co-worker friend down here.  It was, and I’m not making this up, 121 degrees that day, but I dutifully dressed appropriately for the occasion, and Stij put on a tie.

     By the time we arrived at the funeral home, we both looked as if we came by way of the Bering Strait—without a boat.  The AC in the truck hadn’t done diddly.  But, at any rate, we were there, intent upon doing the right thing.

     The bereaved husband (and he was bereaved—I happen to know that he loved his wife very much) was greeting mourners at the door.  He was dressed in a tee shirt and blue jeans, with a “Kiss me, I’m Italian” huge silver belt buckle attached to a macramé belt.

     Well, his tee shirt was black . . . but still. . . I’d never seen anything like it.

     Okay, we were greeted and ushered inside, and things moved along fairly normally—until the floor show.

     I shit you not.  A floor show.  This was the first time I ever had to pay a cover charge to attend a funeral.

     First, there was a clergyman whose unidentifiable accent was so profound that he could have been delivering a eulogy, could have been reading the first chapter of Stephen King’s The Tommyknockers.  Or perhaps he was regaling us with Led Zeppelin lyrics. Who could tell?

     After that, we were treated to a slide show of the deceased’s life, from conception up until yesterday—with musical accompaniment.  You guessed it—“Yesterday.”

     Finally, just as I was looking for a convenient rafter to throw a rope over, there bounced onto the stage, in front of the coffin, five pre-teens, one of whom was the deceased’s grandchild.  They burst into a medley of AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap,” Bob Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” and Elmo and Patsy’s “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”  Though the selection was bizarre, at least the last one had “grandma” in the title. However, it was the middle of July and grandma had been mowed down, not by a ruminant, but a heart attack.   We also had to live through their choreography, which would have driven Nigel Lithgoe to open an artery.

     After the utter, paralyzing horror wore off (we were not the only New Englanders in attendance, apparently), there was subdued, confused applause. 

     The bereaved husband/grandfather was not satisfied with this.

     “Come on!  That was great!  These girls worked really hard on this! Get on your feet and give them some real applause!” he shouted into the microphone.

     We did as he demanded, feeling really weird about a standing O at a funeral home.

     Next up—the stand-up comic nephew.  He was so skilled, he made Pauly Shore look like Rodney Dangerfield.  I didn’t think that was even possible.  It was a funereal miracle, and I was there. Hallelujah.

     There was even an idiot walking around with a movie camera, talking to attendees.  Now I hate this kind of bullcrap at weddings, but having a lens shoved in my face at a funeral was another animal completely.

     “What do you remember best about Marie?” this moron asked me.

     “I never met the woman,” I replied.

     “Really?  Then why are you here?”

     “I’m here to perform a public service,” I said.

     Camera still rolling.  “Really?” he asked foolishly.  “What?”

     I removed a small ball peen hammer from my purse and smashed his camera beyond recognition.  I may have even jumped on it a few times. “That,” I said.

     And do you know, I got a spontaneous standing ovation, was hoisted upon shoulders, and borne from the room, followed by the rest of the attendees, all the way to the nearest bar.

     Yessir, it was one hell of a funeral.