There is a little restaurant in the Essex St. Market that has without great exaggeration about 400 items on the menu, but only four tables. Today a table was missing but the owner was sitting in one of the chairs which were grouped where the table used to be. Bernadette and I took a table for two next to the only other free table which although not dirty was not exactly clean either. It had two menus sitting next to a used straw and I grabbed them while staring at the straw as if it offended me.. The owner's son was bitching about steroid abuse in baseball. He was very upset, not about the abuse but about Roger Clemens' legal strategy. He brought us ice water at the same time he took his finger from the dike which up until then had clearly been holding back a veritable ocean containing the word fuck. I am against overuse of the word so I am searching for another one to replace it. It is harder than you might think. I am about to give up on it. Instead of giving up though, I will use the word diarrhea. You can argue with me all you want about how that isn't going to work and why in your opinion diarrhea is just wrong as a substitution for fuck. Or better yet, write your own restaurant review.
Some of the menu items have cute names like South Pork which is an egg and grits sandwich smothered with sausage gravy. We were here once before and that is what I ordered and it looks a lot worse than it tastes. I guess that is not a solid recommendation. Bernadette ordered one of the cute items but I can't remember what. I ordered something I am familiar with--huevos rancheros. It seemed like there was only the son and the dad working today and as the dad was sitting down and the son was mostly just being upset about Roger Clemens--who he is convinced will go to jail for his lying ways--I didn't think I would actually be getting any food.
Diarrhea dad, get off your lazy ass and make the huevos. Bernadette asked me had I ever talked to my dad that way and I said not ever.
A reserved middle aged couple like who am I calling middle aged sat down next to us and from the kitchen the diarrhea started flowing. What the diarrhea dad? Oh go diarrhea yourself son. Diarrhea this, diarrhea that, diarrhea, diarrhea, diarrhea.
The son served our food and the father came out of the kitchen and sat in the empty chair at the other couple's table to take their order while his son slung diarrhea at his back. The father tossed a couple of choice bits of diarrhea back over his shoulder and then asked the couple what they would be having, calming down measurably and affecting a most respectful manner such that I had to glance over to make sure it was the same man that had just moments earlier been in all out mortal diarrhea combat with his son.
The food was a bit challenging for me, not exactly what I had in mind, but there are 400 choices.
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