10 July 2008
Thursday 10 July
So, today Eric and I went to Top's Bar-B-Q for lunch. I hadn't been in a while and although I'm feeling fat today I figured it couldn't hurt, especially if I actually make it to the gym tonight. So that's the plan, I guess.
Upon entering the restaurant we noticed a gross misspelling on an 8.5 X 11 sign taped to the door. Eric surmised that this new offering must've been something from the Ukraine.
The normally jovial ladies behind the counter must've been having a bad day. For starters, as Eric placed his order for a #4 to the cashier he calls "Nubia," a grill worker who we'll call "Earnestine," turned and said "three number fours?" When Eric protested Earnestine was none too pleased. The scowl on her face and the manner in which she twirled to her grill, turning her back, hairnet flying, was evidence enough.
Eric's friend, "Nubia, of the Golden Flake"
Within minutes Earnestine asked again what our sides were, loaded our trays and placed them on the counter. We started to sit at one of the larger booths, but there was a big puddle of water on the Formica®. Looking up we saw water dripping from the bottom of the round, 1970s-ish, ball-like light fixture. So, we chose a diminutive "two-top" with attached seats to enjoy our matching "#4, all the way, double-fry" meals. Entertaining ourselves by attempting to use our iPhones to take non-blurry photos for this post, Eric said he must have palsy. If fuzzy photos is a symptom of palsy then all novice iPhone users must suffer it. I don't think either of us got a decent photo today.
Two #4, all-the-way, double fry.
We finished our "photo shoot," started eating and began to hear a loud conversation from a thin, bouffant or highly-teased ducktail wearing, grey-haired man with very black, arched eyebrows. He "just didn't get how kids can buy drugs on the Internet without prescriptions, not street drugs" and that the "California Supreme Court must be full of homosexuals and that it's supposed to be a man for a woman and a woman for a man". Since he was behind me I thought he must've been talking with the ketchup bottle. I couldn't imagine anyone sitting and listening to his ignorant drivel.
Instead he was talking to our hostess, a woman in her seventies who we'll call "Erma." Poor thing. Erma has been known to chase ne'er-do-wells away from the premises. She'll have no shenanigans in her Tops. At one point Eric felt that her glance backwards toward us was to ensure that Mr. Idiot Bigot's conversation wasn't disturbing us. I should have told her that we considered it comical. Sad, to be sure, but comical.
After he finished his tirade, Mr. Bigot walked out to the curb at Claybrook and Union, -- on some errant mission or to pee in the gutter -- talking to himself or the signpost. As he turned back to the dining room I noticed that he was wearing a Polo-type Tops Bar-B-Q shirt. So, we guessed that since Erma hadn't chased him out of the store for his hate-talk, and he was wearing a branded shirt, he must be an employee of the Tops empire. And one arrogant enough that it didn't matter if he offended the clientele.
Mr. Idiot Bigot: "Damn Faggots."
We snapped a few more photos capturing more of the Tops charm and made our way back to the office.
I think, perhaps, Erma had a hand in this.