On Wednesday evening, Farmer H wanted to take the #1 son out to eat for his 18th birthday. He chose a local hole-in-the-wall type place. He and I had been there years ago, but since then the original building burned down, and the restaurant moved across the street to some storefronts that had once housed an optometrist. But enough tales of our charming Hillmomba burg.
Upon arrival, we saw by the blackboard sign on the sidewalk that the special was an 8 oz. sirloin dinner for $9.99. You can't beat that with a stick. Even The Pony eats steak. We walked into the bar-and-eatery, and were almost overcome with smoke inhalation. A server asked if we wanted to sit in smoking or nonsmoking. Heh, heh. Like there was a difference in that low-ceilinged establishment with no discernible ventilation system, and ceiling fans circulating the smoke of ten thousand cigarettes from one end to the other. Before we sat down, we had each assumed the odiferous persona of a three-pack-a-day smoker.
Here's where you all holler, "Hey, Grandpa! What's for supper?" Except I'm Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, not Grandpa Jones, and I don't know how to play the banjo, and I don't live in Kornfield Kounty. But I can tell you what was for supper Wednesday night. The birthday boy had a sirloin, medium, with a baked potato and potato-cheese soup. The Pony had a sirloin, well done, with a baked potato, butter only, and nothing else. Farmer H had a sirloin, rare, with a baked potato and a salad. I had the chicken livers and crinkle-cut fries and potato-cheese soup. You might be wondering why all the detail, and whether I'm going to entertain you with my shopping list tomorrow. No. Here's the deal.
The food was good. When we were almost done, what with Farmer H and #1 having about three bites each of steak left on their plates...Farmer H looked at #1 and said, "Boy, I think you have my steak." Indeed. Blood had formed a pool around the remaining chunk of sirloin. The #1 son was sawing off a bite as the Farmer spoke.
"Yeah. I wondered about that. But it's really good. So I didn't mention it."
"I thought mine was a bit overdone. But I wasn't going to complain."
They both continued to eat what was on their plate until it was gone. So observant, those menfolk. I suppose they would have eaten the tongue out of a Jethro Bodine clodhopper boot if it came with a baked potato on the side.
2 comments:
Even me, a non-steak eater, knows that you don't order a steak well done. Otherwise, it WILL taste like the tongue of Jethro's boot. #1 might have gotten his best gift on Wednesday: a lesson on how to order a steak.
As far as Farmer H's mistake, I can't spin that positively. Men eat Spam. They consider the hot dogs rolling under the heat lamp at QT as "high on the hog" fine dining. Your Farmer H sounds just like my Mr. BigCity...having little to no standards...
Sioux,
Funny you should mention hot dogs. No matter what I leave in Frig on those nights I am gone to parent conferences, wit specific instructions how to warm, Farmer H will ferret out the last hot dog from the most remote reaches of the refrigerator. Even if the pack has an expiration date two months past.
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