I have been called a food snob, and I can’t deny it. I don’t like pickles, mayonnaise, mustard, tomatoes, bell peppers, ginger, olives, ranch dressing, curry, and a huge list of other things I can’t think of right now because my brain has blocked their existence from my memory. When I go to Subway I order turkey breast with cheese and some lettuce – no other vegetables or condiments. The sandwich artists look at me like I just ordered a toilet paper tube on whole wheat.
I like to say that I have a refined palate, and that my taste buds pick up the almost imperceptible flavors that normal humans either don’t experience or misinterpret as delicious. Like when others would eat a tomato and think, “Mmmm, I enjoy putting God’s bitterest creation in my mouth!” and I would eat a tomato and think, “Who am I going to have to choke slam at Burger King to get my Whopper without tomatoes!?” However, while my superhuman ability to perceive taste might be true – after all, science has not disproven it – deep down I say it to compensate for my shameful love of greasy spoons.
For those not familiar with that phrase, a greasy spoon is a privately-owned restaurant known for serving homestyle meals and fatty food. My preference for greasy spoons is very much unlike my taste for women. The skankier the better. Restaurant slash car detail? I’m there. BBQ from someone’s converted garage? I won’t call the zoning commissioner. Unintentionally misspelled sign? I’ll have the chikin lyvers. So you can imagine my delight when I saw a new fish and chicken shop attached to a Shell station near where I live.
I spotted Mr. Sharks, the aforementioned restaurant, while driving around with a friend a few days ago. For the sake of this story and to protect her privacy, I’ll just call my friend Jennifer Michelle Harmon. So Jennifer Michelle Harmon did not want to eat at this place. At this point, though, I had already let go of the wheel, and my trusty Saturn was instinctively driving towards the greasy spoon like KITT towards danger.
Special abilities: repelling women and sensing burrito carts within a ten mile radius
I tried explaining the attraction to her.
“It’s a restaurant attached to a gas station.”
Jenny gave me a blank stare.
“And they serve shark meat.”
Another blank stare.
“And they also serve chicken gizzards.”
Ridicules and insults.
Confused as to why she didn’t understand, I decided to add more emphasis and put all the clues together for her. “It’s a RESTAURANT attached to a GAS STATION that serves SHARK MEAT and CHICKEN GIZZARDS!”
Physical violence.
So we didn’t end up going to Mr. Sharks. I did, however, eat there for lunch a few days later. It was everything I dreamed it would be. I bought gas and then conveniently walked a few feet to the restaurant counter. I ordered shark, hush puppies, and corn nuggets and enjoyed my meal while one of the employees went on a loud, expletive-laden tirade on her cell phone about how she hated her boss for not letting her answer her cell phone while working. You just can’t find that ambience everywhere!
And therein, perhaps, lays my love for these places. There are no pretensions of class. You don’t have to wear a suit. Heck, as long as you’re wearing some sort of shirt and shoes, you’re golden. It’s a celebration of the working man and the idea that all people, rich and poor, old and young, have the right to enjoy Meatloaf Tuesdays for $5.99 while getting their car detailed.
Or maybe I just love disgusting food.
It's not on the menu, but the yelling is free
My husband orders sandwiches at subway with only meat and cheese, so you're branching out a little bit more than him. He does the same thing with hamburgers--meat and cheese.
ReplyDeleteIf you ever venture into Florence, AL, you should try eating at Stagg's Grocery. It is the nastiest little hole in the wall, but their hamburgers are big and greasy and oh, so good. You'd love it.