There is no such thing as a free lunch

“Are you busy?”, my boss said to me from the doorway to my office.

“Huh?” I muttered as I looked up and tried to focus my eyes. “No, I’m not.” I couldn’t even lie – not because I didn’t know how long he’d been standing there (I didn’t), but because I just didn’t care. The time in between my looking up and verbally responding must have been about 408 seconds, so deep was I in thought. The fact that I had no idea he was even there is more impressive when you consider that my boss is 6 foot 9.

Tweaking Myspace code takes concentration, damn it. I came disturbingly close to responding at the top of my lungs: “I’M TRYING TO GET RID OF THIS FUCKING TABLE BORDER! GO AWAY!” I should point out that Myspace is not a part of my job in any way.

“Good,” he responded. “Because we’re going to lunch.”

Fuck.

I mean, “Ok. Now? Ok.”

If you’d ever been around my boss when he eats, you’d understand my trepidation. It’s a bit like watching a zombie hog eat a living hog, only the zombie hog has rusty sporks and Lincoln logs for teeth, and can’t close its mouth all the way, so it has to try to fling the bits of live hog into the back of its throat by jerking its head. Also, the zombie hog is 6 foot 9.

So we all drag ourselves away from what we’re doing and meet up in the middle of the legal department, which is made up of folding tables and cardboard boxes, and is half a step up from a shanty town outside of Johannesburg. All of us is myself, my two coworkers, and our fearless leader. One coworker is just as afraid of these lunches as I am. We’ll call her Brenda. Brenda and I both know that this free lunch will cost us our appetites, our ability to reason, and probably end with us having to go home and take baths in tomato juice. The other coworker, well…he’s basically a doormat. We’ll call him annoying hippie.

Brenda was given first choice of restaurant, but for some reason declined. She chose last time, I guess. I’m given next choice, but am completely ignorant of the names or locations of any eating establishments on this side of town. Annoying hippie picks. It’s a fancily decorated (read: gauche) glorified chain where the claim to fame is that they serve you 5 lbs of food per plate.

First we have to survive the car ride. That is to say, first we have to survive the car. Our boss drives a ’72 Dodge Trainwreck. It looks like it’s hit every guard rail in L.A. and Ventura county doing 50. The windshield is cracked like a spiderweb, the mirrors are hanging off, and you have to use the jaws of life to get in. I used to drive a Pinto held together with chicken wire that had no seats and would spray flaming gasoline on you while you drove, and I’m telling you this car is a piece of shit. Our boss makes six figures, incidentally.

We get in. It smells like Pigpen threw up in a coffin. Like Brian Dennehy wore a sweater made of sod every day for 87 years, died in it, and sold it at a garage sale held in a sulfur mine. There were whole crops of fist-sized mushrooms growing in the cracks between the seats, and enough crumbs to spackle Dodger Stadium. Some sort of body bag shaped item was wedged in behind the driver’s seat, so I had to sit sideways and put the seatbelt in the wrong clip to make it hold.

Next we had to survive the driving. Brenda had actually planned to sit behind our boss, despite his enormous frame, because she knew that we’d be making a left turn, and wanted as much car and passenger in between herself and whatever vehicle was inevitably going to T-Bone us at 48 miles an hour. Her plan to make me her airbag backfired though, and she had a front row seat to at least 4 near death experiences in the 7 block journey.

We got there, and thankfully got a parking space rather quickly in the gargantuan – and packed – mall where the restaurant was located. This was because our boss has, inexplicably, a handicap permit hanging from what is left of his rear view mirror. There has never been any discernible reason for this, unless perhaps the DMV is now handing those out for crazy.

The place looks like the Taj Mahal threw up in Donald Trump’s apartment. There isn’t a single thing in sight that isn’t covered in some sort of gold. It feels like there should be a bank of slot machines nearby. We wait for a table with no incident, although Brenda tells me that on the last visit, our boss simply went into the restaurant and sat down, despite there being 58 people waiting in the lobby. When confronted by an employee, he raised such a lunatic frenzy that they let him stay.

The waiter comes and tells us the specials. He hands us menus the size of the King James Bible. Next he sets down a long plate of warm bread covered in a towel. Our boss immediately throws it open and grabs half of it in one hand. I take a small piece from the far end, after I’m sure he hasn’t touched it. Four seconds later I look for some butter. We’ve been given a sizeable pot of it, which is now empty, the entire contents having been ham-handedly chunked onto our boss’ loaf just before it goes into his mouth.

I can’t believe he still has all his fingers. He talks incessantly and at high volume while shoveling the spongy mass into his throat, and it literally rains bread and slobber. I’m pressed ¾ of the way through the padded seat at my back in an effort to distance myself from the horrific display across from me. The waiter reappears and has some trouble making out the command being barked at him through a wad of dough. It’s a ‘request’ for more bread. Our boss apologizes soggilly that he has eaten all of it – and quickly adds a request for more butter, which, he explains, he has also taken the liberty of enjoying all to himself. The waiter dutifully brings more of both, which is immediately and violently confiscated to the area of our boss’ plate. He eats the second tub of butter even faster, not bothering with a knife this time, nor putting any effort into application of the butter to the bread. He simply transports some bread to his gaping maw with one hand, while scraping as much butter as his fingers can hold out of the tub with the other. Both hands go into his mouth, which retains everything his crooked fence post teeth can drag off as he pulls his hands away. The floor and table get the rest. We are having lunch with Grendel.

It is now time to order. We’re lucky in that on this occasion, our boss only orders two entrees. Last time, I am told, he ordered three. There were no leftovers. Today it’s a Greek salad and a pasta dish with shrimp. The poor hapless chap serving us is understandably confused, and asks if our boss means the entrée Greek salad. He most certainly does.

When the food comes our boss stops all talking. He actually puts his head down in one of his hands “thinker” style. It appears he has elected not to use the Tasmanian Devil method that he employed on the bread. Perhaps he has realized he went a wee bit apeshit. Maybe he’s looked up and seen that the entire dining room now looks like a snow storm hit it, and four full crews of day laborers are using leaf blowers to clean up his mess. More likely though, he’s realized that he can eat faster (and more) by lowering his massive skull closer to the food. Holding his head up in this way, he shovels everything on the plate into his mouth cave, including all 12 of the dolphin-sized shrimp. Those he consumes in their entirety, including the tails. The tails.

I have to say that despite the look of the place, my Carolina bbq sandwich was quite good. It came with an Asian slaw right on the sandwich that complemented the tangy barbecue sauce very well. I'd highly recommend it, if you can go there under circumstances where you wouldn't rather suck a gun.

The return trip was uneventful, if you don't count almost dying once per block. I couldn't wait to retreat to my office and set myself on fire to kill the various parasites and space diseases I must have picked up in the car. I put it out with 3 bottles of Purell; the fourth one I drank. Now, it's back to work. And by that I mean Myspace.


Note: Co-worker Brenda also has a blog about this highly enjoyable outing, containing an actual picture of the restaurant and a likeness of our boss that is uncanny.