My parents never took me anywhere as a kid, especially to restaurants. Eating out was reserved for funerals, graduations, and the occasional get together, so long as my rich uncle footed the bill. Anytime we did get exposed to how the upper echelons of society lived my siblings and I were the worst kind of diners imaginable. Running around the restaurant, bickering constantly, and making too many modifications for the kitchen staff were just some of our favorite ways to remind our parents why they fed us mac and cheese at home, safe from the judgmental eyes of the public.
Now that I’m a big boy and I’ve somehow tricked people into paying me to eat food every week I make it a point to go to all the restaurants my parents refused to eat at. Red Lobster always seemed like the fanciest place to me but when the competition is a Burger King and a Pizza Hut the top of the mountain isn’t a far climb. So, with high hopes, a pocketful of cash, and my lungs full of cannabis I entered the lobby and prepared myself to be transported to a simpler time, one where families spent dinners together and people feasted on the oceans bounty without guilt. Plus, it’s Lobsterfest.
I don’t know why I decided to hangout with the tankful of my soon-to-be dinner selections while waiting for my table but I did and let me tell you, it’s a bad idea. I was halfway through naming them when the host led me towards my booth. As I said bye to Steve and Rodney I noticed that Larry seemed to understand the cruel fate that awaited him, his eyes slowly blinking at me in a way that said, “It’s ok Jeffy, eat me.” I tried to shake their faces from my mind as I ordered the Ultimate Surf and Turf experience but it was too late. After some biscuits and another smoke break my plate came out in what can only be described as a massacre of both land and sea. Cows, shrimp, and (probably) Larry’s tail all were sacrificed for my meal and the results were fantastic.
When my meal was done I felt relieved. I made it through an entire dinner without a spill or an argument and my server didn’t complain about the fact that I smelled like a Cypress Hill concert while surrounded by a bunch of senior citizens at supper time. From now on, whenever I want to eat dirty bottom feeder fish in a corporate environment surrounded by hard-working, decent Americans I’m skipping the hip spots and treating myself to some ocean spiders with a side of hospitality. Thank you Red Lobster, the next bowls on me.