Eating out in Memphis

By TED ROBERTS, the SCRIBBLER ON THE ROOF

I often tell my close friends that I spend more money going to Memphis than my friends who go to glamorous locations like Costa de Sol,Paris, Aegean cruises. It begins this way: We just completed the 200-mile trip from home, Huntsville, AL. (Gas bill – $50, two burgers and a side of fries – $9.50) No great expenditure.

Now we’re sitting around in my daughter’s den enjoying our kinship and total agreement on political and cultural matters. Consider I have three adult children, eight grandchildren, uncountable great-grandchildren. And they all like to eat. And they like to talk, but eating wins every time.

Then suddenly somebody says those dreaded words, “Hey, it’s 6:00 – I’m hungry”. Says it loudly, interrupting a fascinating discussion of Aunt Nellie’s two divorces in two months. Everybody looks around. And I know what they’re thinking: PAPA’S GONNA PAY!

There’s usually a dozen or so “Hey, it’s 6:00, I’m hungry” demonstrators. Most are
kids. The solid candidates for reception of the check are me and my three adult children who don’t hesitate to buy a Mercedes, or its equivalent, every two years.

At this point I have four choices:
1) “I’m not hungry, y’all go. I’ll stay here and watch the ballgame.”
2) “Let’s all stay here and have a nice, golden plate of scrambled eggs.”
3) I go, but forget my wallet.
4) I go and don’t forget my wallet and consequently pick up a check the size of “War and Peace.”

Sometimes I fight off the evil impulse by lapsing into a long speech about the joys of family togetherness. “How nice to sit together on this comfortable room with one’s beloved family members – just reliving old times. Sure beats hanging out in a noisy restaurant.” I no sooner pause for breath (a mistake) than son No. 1 (and smartest) says, “Yeah, we’ll talk some more after supper – let’s go eat”.

Time for me to play my final card. “Daughter Dear, why don’t you bring out those delicious cookies I saw in the kitchen.” (Great appetite suppressors.) But it never works – this crowd wants red meat.

So, I’m in trouble. How to minimize it? One way is to bring up the latest article I read on dieting. I extoll the virtues of an all-salad diet – especially for supper. I try. But already the waitress
is at the far end of the table frustrating my plans for an all green supper.

And why are they whispering – the waitress and my granddaughter? Why does a ten-year-old need five minutes with a waitress? I’d rather she spent five minutes with a Bengal tiger. I overhear whispering of cashew-encrusted trout, Angus beef, and paté de foi gras. And that’s not all. I catch the phrase “apple pie with ice cream”.

Oh boy, this is gonna be a record breaker. And why didn’t she start with me so I could set the standard with a small salad and maybe a toasted cheese sandwich? Well, by the time she gets to me, it’s too
late and I’m wondering whether I should lose my wallet or have a coronary occlusion at check time. No, that wouldn’t help. They’d just extract my wallet, pay the bill, and leave a 40% tip.