Brunch with Thad
Or How To Offend Nearly Everyone Without Really Trying
Mike Grant
A lot of sports bars and brew pubs in this area are starting to serve breakfast on Saturdays and Sundays. We went to one a couple of Saturdays ago, and it was a unique experience for us. It was early in the afternoon and we were not in the market for breakfast, but the plates of the breakfast eating customers sure looked tempting, and a bloody Mary started to sound like a good idea.
I walked back by the kitchen and past the stacked boxes of food, supplies, and beer. I was looking for the bathroom and found an olfactory smorgasbord on the way. For some reason the scents were not yet intermingled in the still air. If someone had opened the back door and let a draft through, the separateness of smells would have been lost. The first aroma was that of pine cleaner which I took as a good sign. Then there was coffee, bacon, maple syrup, hot vegetable grease for French fries and fish and chips, and grilling hamburgers. Most of the televisions were tuned to a good women’s tennis match between one of those hot Russian chicks who are starting to dominate the sport just behind Serena Williams, and a very athletic Australian lady, Samantha Stosur. There were two different broadcasts of the same match and there was about a three second delay from one to the next. You could watch the same play twice and only get confused by the commercials which were different on the two channels.
The waiter had to check with us three times before we were ready to order. There was just too much sniffing, tennis watching, eavesdropping, and deciding to do. We went in thinking burger but then had to deal with the omelet temptation thing. It was intense.
Kristin asked Thad the waiter if they had good burgers. He said, “Yes.” She asked which one he liked best and there was a definite pause. I thought, “Uh-oh.” Thad was deciding whether to fib or to lay it out. He said, “I like the chicken burger.” I thought, “This guy is a vegetarian and hasn’t even tasted the chicken burger let alone the barbeque with bacon.” The gaydar device in my brain started to warm up like when the fan on your computer kicks in when you wiggle the mouse first thing in the morning. (It normally would have kicked in when the said his name was Thad, but I was disarmed by the pancakes vs. Reuben dilemma, and it was early). Then he listed three or four other chicken dishes he liked and said he wasn’t much for beef. That sealed it.
If you follow the warped reasoning in this example of stereotyping to its natural conclusions, you can end up with some ridiculous assumptions. All men who prefer chicken burgers over beef are gay? Vegetarians are flamers? Healthy eating habits are an indication of homosexuality? What about those who prefer bison? Is a buffalo more or less macho than a Hereford? Are there no Russian women on the scale between Maria Sharapova and Olga the crooked-toothed mustachioed old witch in support hose and crepe-soled shoes who abuses the cute children in her charge? Such assumptions are preposterous. So why do we make them? Because we are people, that’s why. We jist can’t hep it.
I thought about this while Thad was hustling around taking orders, bussing tables, and tending bar. He may be “light in the loafers”, but he can work his ass off. I was about to reconsider and give Thad the John Wayne manliness award when I overheard a conversation between him and a young couple at the bar. They mentioned that they were passing through on the way up the coast from California. Thad said, “I lived in San Francisco for a couple of years. I loved it.” That sealed it again.
Before any brute from San Fran named Thaddeus Jablonski reads this and wants to whip my ass, I apologize to all the Thads, all the Jablonskis, and all 49ers fans.
P.S.
Kristin’s barbeque bacon burger was great. The bacon was thick, perfectly cooked, and peppery. The patty was hand made, and the bun was fresh. My fish and chips were pretty good, and you can choose between real home—made chips and French fries. We’ll go for breakfast next time.
Or How To Offend Nearly Everyone Without Really Trying
Mike Grant
A lot of sports bars and brew pubs in this area are starting to serve breakfast on Saturdays and Sundays. We went to one a couple of Saturdays ago, and it was a unique experience for us. It was early in the afternoon and we were not in the market for breakfast, but the plates of the breakfast eating customers sure looked tempting, and a bloody Mary started to sound like a good idea.
I walked back by the kitchen and past the stacked boxes of food, supplies, and beer. I was looking for the bathroom and found an olfactory smorgasbord on the way. For some reason the scents were not yet intermingled in the still air. If someone had opened the back door and let a draft through, the separateness of smells would have been lost. The first aroma was that of pine cleaner which I took as a good sign. Then there was coffee, bacon, maple syrup, hot vegetable grease for French fries and fish and chips, and grilling hamburgers. Most of the televisions were tuned to a good women’s tennis match between one of those hot Russian chicks who are starting to dominate the sport just behind Serena Williams, and a very athletic Australian lady, Samantha Stosur. There were two different broadcasts of the same match and there was about a three second delay from one to the next. You could watch the same play twice and only get confused by the commercials which were different on the two channels.
The waiter had to check with us three times before we were ready to order. There was just too much sniffing, tennis watching, eavesdropping, and deciding to do. We went in thinking burger but then had to deal with the omelet temptation thing. It was intense.
Kristin asked Thad the waiter if they had good burgers. He said, “Yes.” She asked which one he liked best and there was a definite pause. I thought, “Uh-oh.” Thad was deciding whether to fib or to lay it out. He said, “I like the chicken burger.” I thought, “This guy is a vegetarian and hasn’t even tasted the chicken burger let alone the barbeque with bacon.” The gaydar device in my brain started to warm up like when the fan on your computer kicks in when you wiggle the mouse first thing in the morning. (It normally would have kicked in when the said his name was Thad, but I was disarmed by the pancakes vs. Reuben dilemma, and it was early). Then he listed three or four other chicken dishes he liked and said he wasn’t much for beef. That sealed it.
If you follow the warped reasoning in this example of stereotyping to its natural conclusions, you can end up with some ridiculous assumptions. All men who prefer chicken burgers over beef are gay? Vegetarians are flamers? Healthy eating habits are an indication of homosexuality? What about those who prefer bison? Is a buffalo more or less macho than a Hereford? Are there no Russian women on the scale between Maria Sharapova and Olga the crooked-toothed mustachioed old witch in support hose and crepe-soled shoes who abuses the cute children in her charge? Such assumptions are preposterous. So why do we make them? Because we are people, that’s why. We jist can’t hep it.
I thought about this while Thad was hustling around taking orders, bussing tables, and tending bar. He may be “light in the loafers”, but he can work his ass off. I was about to reconsider and give Thad the John Wayne manliness award when I overheard a conversation between him and a young couple at the bar. They mentioned that they were passing through on the way up the coast from California. Thad said, “I lived in San Francisco for a couple of years. I loved it.” That sealed it again.
Before any brute from San Fran named Thaddeus Jablonski reads this and wants to whip my ass, I apologize to all the Thads, all the Jablonskis, and all 49ers fans.
P.S.
Kristin’s barbeque bacon burger was great. The bacon was thick, perfectly cooked, and peppery. The patty was hand made, and the bun was fresh. My fish and chips were pretty good, and you can choose between real home—made chips and French fries. We’ll go for breakfast next time.
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