Marty Diet

For lunch yesterday I ran through a Wendy's drive through. Okay, all right, I did not run. They frown on that. I drove my new old van. But you get the point.

As I typically do, I ordered far too much food. It was the Baconator meal, large size. Now here comes a joke for you to make, a fat pitch I'm quite confident you can drill over the fence. The one in the deepest regions of the ballpark in fact. I can even see the eye rolls which will accompany what you're about to read. It's okay. Swing at the fat pitch and roll those eyes. I would. I know Ron would.

Baconators have all that stuff which is no good for you. Most doctors say don't eat it; I'm certain mine would. Two quarter pound pieces of red meat on a huge buttered bun with gloriously melted cheese, a large fries along with it, topped with gallons of ketchup and mayo. And bacon, of course. Salty, crispy, yummy bacon. 

My drink? A Diet Coke.

It was too much food. I don't know the calorie count and I don't care. Too much. But I order Diet Coke with such blatantly bad food because I like the taste. Honest. And, full disclosure, I suppose it does help ameliorate the calories. Somewhat. But I genuinely like the taste.

Did you just roll your eyes at me?

Not Fooling Anyone

Diet Pepsi is favorite drink of mine. When I order fast food on the road, I usually do the stupid thing and get the large size meal. But always with a Diet Pepsi.

I am well familiar with the joke. I am sure that the restaurant employees and many of you out there have or will remark on the humor of it in your minds. Look at that: he's large sizing and trying to be cute, thinking he can offset all those extra calories and saturated fats by drinking a diet pop.

I'm know I'm not. Joke all you want, I do it because I like the taste of Diet Pepsi. That's really all there is to it.

Quiet Ron.

The buffet challenge

Who doesn't love buffet restaurants? They're like a challenge, a big dare which you cannot let pass. Although they're sort of like sticking your tongue on a cold pipe when you think about it.

I should avoid buffets. Of all the food choices out there they are probably the least good for my health. So I believe that there are two approaches to buffets: avoid them altogether, or discipline yourself when you eat at one.

The latter option isn't much fun. I tried it at a breakfast buffet while on the road recently.

As I entered the dining area I told myself, steady, old boy. Just two plates. And neither heaping helpings either.

I already didn't like where that was heading.

After giving my order to the waitress along with a request for coffee and orange juice, a large orange juice because juice is good for you, isn't it, I built my first serving. A scoop of scrambled eggs, likewise a helping of hash browns, sausages, less than a half pound of bacon (I think) and sausage gravy over the eggs. No biscuits. I had to draw a line somewhere. Sacrifices had to be made.

When I sat to eat, my brain fired instructions. Break the bacon rashers and eat in two or three bites, it insisted. Split the sausages into three pieces. All right, you can dip them in the gravy on the eggs since the gravy's there. Chew everything, even the eggs. No rush to eat, Marty. You'll only eat too much.

Stupid brain.

Get a second plate. Eat it the same way, brain continued. So I did. Neither helping heaped. I finished, paid, and left, all the while telling myself that I did well. All the while trying to convince myself that I was satisfied.

Yet I can't help thinking that I lost the challenge.

A Buck Twenty Seven

Ah, I remember well the time I got my first senior discount...

It was at a fast food restaurant in Indiana. Seeing that the young woman behind the counter hadn't charged me enough, I politely pointed it out (as you should). She smiled and replied cheerfully, "I gave you your senior citizen discount, sir!"

The front of my mind protested, "Exactly how old do you think I am?" The back of my mind thought rationally, "Well, I am saving $1.27."

I actually did nothing more than stammer a thank you. I took my tray and sat down to eat my lunch. As I ate I thought, so that's it. Your pride is worth a dollar and twenty seven cents.

Still, the fries were hot.

I'd rather go fast food

Buca di Beppo. The name sounds like a rejected moniker for a long forgotten Marx brother. Beppo Marx; think about it. In reality, it's the name of the restaurant I ate in last night with a group of friends. You know, one of those different things you try just to do something different. The trouble is, I hate different. I don't want to try new things.

The food is served, I think they call it family style, where you order large dishes and share them. It's supposed to be fun. But what's the fun of dinner being ordered by committee? If I had wanted that, I'd have voted for Obama and let him and Congress tell me what to eat like they want to tell me everything else that I need these days.

Yet as with acts of Congress, it took an insane amount of time to get anything done. It took forever to order because everyone had to debate which salad, which sides, which entree, and which style of plates and silverware to use. All right, maybe not that last part, but still. I don't want to eat what the person next to me wants, I want to eat what I want when I'm in a restaurant. This is America, by gum, and I can order my own food. If I want to have dinner family style I'll do the obvious thing and stay at home with my family for dinner. Sure, I may then have to eat what my wife sets in front of me, but hey, at least it came from my own larder. She cooks better than some 19 year old working their way through college anyway.

Then the food finally comes and everyone gets their first helping. After another fifteen minutes, that is. Passing dishes about among ten people squeezed around a tiny restaurant table is more confusing and frustrating than getting home to the suburbs during rush hour. You need an air traffic controller to keep the flying dishes in order. And the food isn't cold by the time you finally get to eat, oh no, sure. Then, since it's served the way it is, there's always those last two pieces of chicken which everyone is being too kind to take in case someone else may want one, when the truth is everyone at the table wants one because they haven't had enough to eat. The remaining veggies remain alone, pleading for attention, but who wants them? Family style without the family style portions, that's what it is. At home, where the real family style is, there's always enough for everyone.

I think that the next time I'm invited to such a place, I'll politely decline and have a beer and burger at home. The drink will be cold, the food hot, and all the atmosphere I need will be supplied by the ball game on the tube. Any new experience will be limited to who the Tigers play next. That's about all the diversity I care for.