A couple of weeks ago, while I was doing some prep work after the restaurant closed, three “bros” entered my kitchen through the swinging doors (you know, the ones that are inscribed with the legend, “Employees Only”), and one of them said to me something that sounded very much like, “Hey, I used to be a chef — do you know where someone can buy a joint?”
And I was thinking, “Dude, you’ve been reading way too many Anthony Bourdain books!”
But I said, “Nope!” And the “bros” left.
Because, first of all, I haven’t smoked a doob since before these clowns ever tasted one. And, second, the last time I did, the shit was so strong that I couldn’t function for hours. And, third, do I really look like a hippie, dood?! I mean, I know I used to look that way, but that was before most of my hair fell out! And, fourth, since when do kids walk up to geezers who look like their fathers and try to score drugs?! Really? You’re gonna buy pot from your father’s buddy?
Okay, The Sycamore has finally jumped the shark...
…as far as I am concerned. If you can’t put out your lunch special somewhere near the general vicinity of lunchtime (and this has happened twice this week), then you have a serious problem. Doubly so if you neglect to haul in your chalkboard advertising the lunch special.
I went home and consoled myself with Casa Chicas Guacamole, Casa Sanchez Chips, and Jim Beam.