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Chick Restaurants
by Charles Marshall
Law No. 23 of the 367 Irrefutable Laws
of Life clearly states that given the opportunity to select a restaurant, a
woman will almost always choose a chick restaurant.
Incidentally, I’m not entirely satisfied with the term
“chick restaurant.” I’ve been trying to come up with another one that denotes an
estrogen-laden eating environment and the best I have so far is “estro-rant” (“estrant”
for short) or “dress-rant.” I’ll keep working on it.
So I took my wife out to lunch the other day, let her
pick the restaurant and, surprise surprise, we wound up at a chick restaurant.
After we were seated, my wife said she was thinking about getting the Spinach
Pochette with some scones and then following with a Crepe Suzette or torte
afterward. I got mad because I suspected she was cussing me out in French or
something.
Meanwhile, I was looking at the menu and not
understanding a bit of it. My wife suggested that I try either the Chicken
Friand or the Beef Bourguignon with white wine caper sauce. Out of all that, I
recognized the words “chicken” and “beef.” I finally decided to go with the
beef. I didn’t know what a white wine caper sauce was, and frankly it scared the
Crepe Suzette out of me, but I figured I’d take the risk anyway and just scrape
it off the meat if it turned out that “caper” is a French word for slugs.
When our food was served, I learned my 20 bucks had
purchased about four bites of beef sitting on top a bed of rice. I did the math
and it came to roughly five bucks a bite. That must have been one special cow.
At those prices, I’m guessing he was Ivy League educated.
There was some other stuff on my plate that I didn’t
recognize and therefore didn’t touch. My rule for food is simple: If I don’t
recognize it, then I don’t eat it. I think most men feel this way. That’s why,
at pot-luck dinners, all the potato salad, baked beans and fried chicken
disappear right away while the string bean casserole and squash soufflé sit
there and gather flies.
After we sat in the dress-rant for a while, it came to
me in a manner not unlike the revelation John had on the Isle of Patmos, that
many men are still wholly ignorant of this culinary anomaly. How does a guy know
if the establishment in question is indeed an Estro-rant?
One of the best ways I've found is to examine the sign
out front. Is it written in silly, swirly, pastel letters such as a junior high
girl might write? Does it have little pictures of butterflies, flowers, or
inedible birds on it? Does the name of the restaurant begin with La, Le, or Bon?
If the answer to any of the above is yes, then, my friend, this is not the place
for you.
A restaurant sign should always display the name of the
restaurant in big, bold, easy-to-read letters so that you don’t have to think
hard when you’re hungry. The only picture that should be on the sign should be
of an edible animal such as a pig, cow, or chicken.
The restaurant name should be easy to recognize and
pronounce. Names such as Eat, Joe’s, or Eat at Joe’s are all acceptable. Waffle
House or Denny’s will do in a pinch.
It is also helpful if the sign indicates that food —
and I mean real food, daggeddy snabbit, especially meat — may be found within.
Names such as Joe’s Pork House or Bob’s Steak Shack are ideal.
So, the next time you find yourself at a dress-rant,
order a torte and think of me. But take my advice and stay away from the slugs
and crepes.
© 2007 Charles Marshall. Charles Marshall is a nationally known comedian and
author. Visit his Web site at
www.charlesmarshall.net or contact him via e-mail at
charles@charlesmarshall.net.
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