Talkin' Turkey About Smothered Chicken

Thevictorians traveled four hours today to be in town for The Pony's special award on Sunday. Again, he is NOT getting a leg lamp! He is sharing this honor with 99 other Missouri Scholars. The top of the top. Genius was also a recipient of this recognition during his senior year. However, we were able to procure a hotel room in the facility holding the dinner back then. This time, it was booked up like the Library of Congress. So we stayed at a Holiday Inn Express.

Val is not getting an award for being one of the top 100 scholars in Missouri. But she IS staying at a Holiday Inn Express tonight.

The Pony ditched us to go pal around with an old friend who's going to college in this town. So Hick and I were on our own for supper. After driving four hours, then finding the dorm to drop off The Pony for his rendezvous, and walking around the facility to see the indoor pool, a favorite hangout of Hick's...we decided to eat supper at the attached restaurant.

Being elderly folk, Hick and I headed to dinner just before 5:00 p.m. The better to miss the crowds, you see. Not that there was any crowd marching toward this restaurant like Sherman on Atlanta, Attila the Hun on Gaul, or Genghis Khan on China. No. There were a couple of middle-aged ladies there for happy hour. And some disinterested staff, holding it against us for daring to patronize their establishment. This had to be the most scandal-rocked locale since Grace Metalious blew the lid off Peyton Place. Coming in and going out, there were always two people standing around the corner talking in hush-hush tones.

Let the record show that this restaurant IS in a college town. Where alumni show up for athletic events, and visiting parents have money to burn. It has a sports theme. Let's call it HurrahRulers Pub and Grill. Where the waitresses are dressed like hurrahrulers. But it's not a boobie bar. It has big TVs all over the walls, and serves wings and beverages with spirits. But it also has other fare.

Let the record further show that Hick and I both enjoyed our entrees immensely. Which is a choice of words that I hope will not evoke an image of our portly personas. Hick had the smothered chicken, which was unable to gasp a last breath under a blanket of mushrooms, onions, and melted Monterrey Jack and cheddar. I had the grilled pineapple chicken on a bed of rice. Both were delicious, though Hick groused that his smothered chicken was NOT on a bed of rice, and that he was jealous, because mine had a bed and his did not. Silly Hick. His chicken was smothered, by cracky, and did not know whether it had a bed or not. Sheesh! To shut him up, I slid my square plate over next to his and commanded him to take half my rice. Which he did. Although his perception of half differs from mine by about 25 percent.

As our choice of side dish, we each chose a house salad. Watching our waistlines, you know. The salads were also served all artsy on square plates. I prefer mine in a bowl so I don't expend extra calories chasing it around, but I must say, this salad was worth the effort. Sure, it was bagged greens with a couple of strands of angel-hair-fine yellow cheese on top. But it had dried CRANBERRIES in it. Hick was impressed. "Whoever thought to put raisins in this salad was a genius. That's really good." I can't wait until he is served something comparably exotic in France.

Much to Hick's dismay, we did not get a hurrahruler waitress. She had the table behind us. We had a lad who came from the direction of the side bar. Not the front bar. Like Abby Lockhart from ER's performance evaluation read...he was technically proficient, despite certain attitude issues.

HurrahLad came and seated us, took our drink order, and returned oh so very promptly with two Diet Cokes. I don't know how they mix their syrup and carbon dioxide, but this was the most tasty Diet Coke I've had in a coon's age. (Don't listen, gas station chicken store! I'm still your loyal customer!) We ordered the food. He brought the salads without putting his thumbs in them. He was unobtrusive. We thanked him. The minute Hick placed his fork on his salad plate, HurrahLad sprinted to get it like a Centre Court ballboy at Wimbledon.

Our chickens came before I finished my salad. I resisted the urge to growl deep in my throat like my sweet, sweet Juno, but I held onto the plate as I moved it to the side. In addition, just for good measure, I kept a firm grip on my fork. Nobody takes Val's salad plate before she licks it cleaner that Jack Sprat and his missus's fat platter.

Right after bringing the chickens, HurrahLad swooped in again to set a fresh Diet Coke beside Hick's low glass. Then rushed back again to spirit that one away when empty. He did not try to make conversation. But he gave the distinct impression of being highly pissed off that we were there. He was like a waiter at Kellerman's resort in the Catskills. Thank goodness we didn't have an ugly daughter who planned to be a decorator with us for him to lure onto the golf course late at night for clandestine activities.

So...except for that, the dining experience was acceptable. The food part was great. Hick paid and waited for his change. Again, HurrahLad let his displeasure shine through. Or perhaps he just wasn't as bubbly as I expected. He placed the receipt and the change on the table beside Hick, thanked us, and turned on his heel. I had to holler him back. And I usually don't like to do the dealing with the staff when Hick is there. Hick gave him a 20% tip, which was plenty generous for the people skills of that HurrahLad.

I just don't get his disdain. It's not like he was an actor moonlighting as a waiter in Columbia, Missouri.