Last Friday night, I wasn’t sure if I was going to live to see Saturday morning. And, no, I’m not being overly dramatic.
Let me set the stage: I met up with some buddies I hadn’t seen in a while and we enjoyed a few beers throughout the night—not so many as to be irresponsible, but just enough to where decision making was suspect. The last of those decisions, the crucial one, was to eat a slinger* at a greasy spoon, emphasis on the filthy, grimey unwashed spoon.
How this place passed the health code will remain a mystery, primarily since I don’t know that I ever want to return. For one, you have to be buzzed in and, once inside, you realize that the criteria isn’t all that strict**. Secondly, the kitchen was manned by either a woman and her son or a woman and her son, who might possibly be her lover. It’s a coin flip. Also, the man had the worst teeth I’d ever seen outside of an African fundraising commercial, but, to be fair, also had a robust repertoire of jokes, many of which were actually funny.
The two worked efficiently behind the wellworn counter that sat underneath a bank of all-too-bright fluorescent lights. Some would say too efficiently. For example: me. Call me an old fuddy duddy, but I’d like the person handling my food to be a different person than the one handling the trash—or at least be a person who washed their hands in between.
As for the slinger itself … not bad. Just the right amount of heart clogging goodness at a fair price.
Upon leaving the establishment, one of the guys summed it up perfectly.
“I think I just got Hepatitis F.”
*A local delicacy consisting of eggs, sausage and hash browns covered in chili with a side of toast, primarily served as a means of sobering up quickly and efficiently.
**Basically, do you look like a murderer or not?