Long entry. May I recommend enjoying one part tomorrow? Meh, it’s your life.

Part 1: St. Patrick’s Day Massacre

Went out to dinner last night with some friends, there were six of us. I believe it was optimism rather than ignorance that convinced us we’d be able to procure a table at an Irish bar at 7:30 for said meal.

After contributing to a fire hazard and being massaged in a whirlpool of twisting elbows at a bar in Gramercy, we got outta there.

Famished and needing to eat before drinking a lot, we “dove” into the first place that was uncrowded and sold food. And yes, pun fans, this place was a dive.

But not one of those trendy, self-aware, so-uncool-it’s-cool dives – this was a HOLE. It was a diner whose style was beyond retro – past the Johnny Rockets et al of the 1950s, all the way back to, as we agreed last night, “Poughkeepsie, NY in 1938.”

Whatever. They sold beer, which was a nice touch. And so we ordered.

(Parenthesis: I’ve given up french fries for Lent, a more self-sacrificing option than the Catholicism I gave up last year. And yes, I know that if I gave up Catholicism for Lent, there should have been no Easter by which to end that Lent, in which case I should have been able to order the damn fries.

But no. I got a burger, and I chose onion rings, because on the menu it said, “Fried onions available upon request.” I asked the troll of a shadow of a skeleton of a waitress – also retro-fit – if I could substitute the fried onions for the french fries. She said, “You mean onion rings?” Disgusted at her presence, I agreed. Then she said, “No. Those are more expensive.” I said it last night and I’ll say it again: It’s a good thing I’m only half-Irish, ’cause otherwise I’d have kicked 100% of her ass.)

So we ordered. Burgers, mostly, some chicken. Whatever.

We sit and drink slowly and chat and discuss our professions and have a nice time. Still hungry.

An HOUR later, the hag limps over and ‘says’, “Chicken fingers…Burg…Burgers — is that Medium-rare?….”

She wasn’t slow, she was just confused. Having tried to reason with her earlier, to little fanfare, I waited until she was done.

At which point, she confesses, “We’re out of beef. I can only give you turkey burgers.”

OUT of beef. Out of BEEF. This place was popular on St. Patrick’s Day – good for you, olde diner. But this absence of meat – which must have been hilariously conspicuous – was something that could have been brought to our attention IMMEDIATELY.

Not an hour later. That’s valuable drinking time, on the one night of the year when even our liver says, “Ahh what the hell. You’ve earned it. Here’s a green hat for ya, laddy.”

After the waitress left our sight, I took the opportunity to say one of my all-time, only-good-when-proper catchphrases, “Where’s the beef??”

Immensely satisfied, I then said, “We’re leaving,” and we coughed up cash for our drinks. Fair enough. We went to another, brighter, more modern restaurant, and had a great fucking meal.

The key to employing the catchphrase “Where’s the beef?”- we’re talking practically here – lies in its appropriateness.

Which reminds me of the OTHER time I used it…

Part 2. Chinese Democracy: …With Liberty and Beef for None

Months ago (and dozens of times since, all of which I’ve written about, it seems), I ordered in Chinese food. Real hungry + big guy = big meal – egg roll, dumplings, beef and broccoli.

Twenty hunger-inducing minutes later, I get my meal. Rub my palms together, lick my lips. Look at the entree, through the clear top. Lots of green. Curious. I think, “Ah, the beef’s on the bottom, stewing in its own fatty goodness.”

Crack it open — nope. Not a strip of rat meat to be found. Just a whole lot of fucking broccoli.

Incredulously, I blink twice and shout aloud, “WHERE’S THE BEEF?”

I call back. Seems the lady didn’t understand what I said, and thought instead of “BEEF with broccoli,” I said, “STEAMED broccoli.”

so much is
wrong

with this
concept

a) That’s not what I said, and the words don’t even sound very much alike (ssss vs. buh-) and 2) Who would order in plain, expensive broccoli from a Chinese restaurant? Along with other, fatty foods? Holy SHIT, dude.

In the end, they dispatched another guy with my beef and broccoli and – get this – asked for the steamed broccoli BACK, PLUS 50 cents for their trouble.

You can imagine how much business I gave them after that.

Yup. Lots.