Now compare.
For some reason, last Friday, we broke the sanctified ritual of post-Saints grubbery at Cinco De Mayo. And, to add more blaspheme to the last scene, we broke the ritual to eat at BUMBACLOT Denny's. Maybe it was the persuasive ways of Malky's little sister Rojeanne and her sister-by-another-mister, Brick.....maybe we just felt like breaking routine. Who knows. Either way, we turned our back on the one that's never done us wrong, to go to the one that's never done us RIGHT. Before I even touch on balls-taste of Denny's, allow me to give you a list of reasons why you need to love that Cinco De Mayo shit just like we do:
1-There are four thousand, seven hundred and ninety-three items on the menu, and every combination of any food you can imagine. It's a delightful kaleidescope of blue-collar, Mexican cuisine. Bitches always wanna complain about not having enough choice on a menu. At Cinco de Mayo, they solve this problem by giving each and every ingredient it's own place on the menu. You want Lettuce with One Nacho and a side of cocktail sauce? Boom. Just order the #45. Oh, you want a whole radish, draped in a refried bean paste? Cinco de Mayo's here for you. Just order the #756.
2-You'll never find a hard taco shell so tasty, crunchy, and ultimately delicious anywhere. You bite into that shit and harps begin to play. They could put pieces of wet carpet and baby diaper in that shell, and I'd still come back the next week. Running African fast.
3-That kinda butchy lady behind the counter with the Mohawk is sweet as pie.
5-It's always open, and never smells like mopwater....no matter what time you walk in. And they're always mopping.....no matter what time you walk in.
12-They have murals of Aztec warriors with double-jointed kneecaps ALL OVER THE WALLS. You can eat your octopus (yeh son, they got it), gaze at the epic and storied history of the peoples our Mexican cousins are descended from, and marvel at how European they look. I advise doing this with a chicken taco plate.
So there you have it. TWELVE reasons to keep it neighborhood and roll witchya boys after a long night of gettin' screamed at by Truck.
Now, on to Denny's.
We sat down at the table and talked in groans for 15 minutes while we waited for our food. No words, just groans, because we were that hungry. Although I do remember Rojeanne telling me she would just give me her dog with no questions if I asked her for it, because it was just a dog and might as well be a wind chime. When the food finally did come, it kinda looked like a tall, fat walrus swam from the sea, laid on our table and cut himself open. Against my better judgement, I ordered chicken fingers. There was no chicken in my fingers, and I would have preferred they just gave me a cup of loose batter, rather than fry it and try to pass it off like chicken fingers.
Rojeanne had some kind of cavalcading burger carousel that looked like four small novels with onions in them.
Brick... I can't remember what she had, but it was probably bogus too.
Malky had the worst thing I've ever seen. That shit looked like some Depression-era bread, baked in lard, and covered in a cascade of cheese, mushrooms, sauce, a swatch of wool and some potatoes.
There was a plate of pancakes in the middle of the table.
We ate heartily with little to no complaints, and conversation was normal. Even though the food tasted heavy and unrelenting, and coated our insides with so much grease it slowed down our hearts, we ate. When we were done though, we were back to talking in groans, and this time it wasn't because we were hungry.
When I got home, I tossed and turned in the night and woke up feeling a column of warm, solid and unmoving fries in my throat. If I could've spoken....the three words I would've spoken in a firm and cold voice, while my wife lay next to me sleeping wistfully, would have been
"F#*k you Denny's"
Never again.
she looks so excited to be touching balls.
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