Last night, Noah and I made the trip out to Little Canada to dine at Porterhouse with our besties Chad and Sarah. The boys are on their way to Milwaukee (Algonquin for "the good land") for the annual fantasy baseball draft, and being the gentlemen that they are (chortle), they decided to take us out to a nice meal before abandoning us for a weekend of debauchery. The four of us hadn't hung out in some time, which royally sucks because when we lived next door to each other we were practically attached at the hip. We spent many hours grilling, Wii bowling, or playing pull tabs at our local watering hole. Alas, Northeast was calling them, so they moved to Chad's old house, and we get together as often as we can now, which still isn't enough, but I digress.
But as we all know, absence makes the heart grow fonder. We had a lovely time talkin' baseball and kittens over a few drinks and an absolutely insane amount of food. You see, if you have not been to Porterhouse, here's the deal: it's not like other steakhouses. You don't have to pay $17.95 for a side of asparagus large enough to build a small log cabin with (I don't care if it "serves two," MANNY'S, that's highway robbery for something that makes you have stinky pee). It's all included - and it's cheaper than any place downtown by far! So you get the bread, your choice of Caesar or spinach salad, and then, right when you think another piece of bread sounds like a good idea, your meal comes out. And your side dish should serve two, but it's all yours. Sarah got a baked potato with her scallops, and the thing was the size of a regulation football. She could have kicked it to Cordarrelle Patterson for a 109 yard return, but then she would have got sour cream all over her shoes. (Waooooo!)
Clearly, my readership, we were all stuffed after the meal. I had every intent of bringing my mashed potatoes home for Mom and I to have on Saturday, but the clarified butter I had dunked every ounce of my lobster tails into went straight to my brain (certainly wasn't the cosmopolitans) and I forgot them. The waiter asked if we wanted dessert, and creme brulee did sound tempting, but I feared that one more bite of food would leave me unable to walk, requiring Noah to roll me out of the building, much like they had to do with Violet Beauregarde in the book version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. (I refuse to see either movie version. I have my reasons.) I realized I'd be so much comfortable in my track pants.
Track pants should be appropriate attire to wear to nice restaurants. I am not a crackpot.
Hear me out. Remember that last big meal you had, where you stood up to leave and you were so full you worried that the button was going to shoot off your pants and shatter the wine glass of an innocent patron? The only two ways to wash away those concerns are eschewing pants altogether (not recommended) or track pants! Better yet, wouldn't it be fun to get a big group together and all show up in Zubaz? Maybe it's because I come from Anoka County, where just last month a woman found it acceptable to walk into the Northown Best Buy, drop trou, and take a tinkle, but I think Zubaz are kind of fun in a white trashy way! They're not flattering, and they're practically synonymous with the mullet, but gosh darn it they're comfortable! Just think about it.
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