Dunsay Pt. II
My hunger subsided. The food was ordered and we all now had to decide where to sit. I must reflect back on my previous description of the interior. The entire restaurant was filled with random booths, chairs, bar stools, and outdoor patios. We decided to sit out front on some patio equipment we noticed out the window. We trekked out the front door and followed the building around to the seats. This is when the series of bizarre events began. The outdoor furniture was wrapped in chains. I understand this is for the twilight when theft is prevalent and it is easier to chain the chairs and tables up then to lug them inside. What I didn't understand was why they weren't undone for business hours. By the amount of dust caked to the equipment I could only assume the staff had long since forgotten of their existence. We stood there puzzled, staring at this chain gang of chairs. The whole front of the place felt barren and desolate at this point. We were no longer in Burbank. We were in Podunk Dakota and we had just stopped off at the local soda pop shoppe to stretch our bones. We slumped back inside defeated and hungry. As we pulled open the glass swinging door, which I'm damn near sure had a bell on it, Warren in his best "fuck it" tone said," let's just sit here."
"Here" was the east side of the bar. It faced the inner workings of the kitchen and the backside of the illustrious women at the cash register. The bar was laden in empty soda cups, overturned fry baskets, ketchup spills and bun scraped plates. I don't know why we settled in at the filthy bar. There was a back patio I saw out of the corner of my eye that looked pretty decent, but I was hungover, Bryan was high, and Warren wouldn't give a fuck if his last name was Horowitz and he lived in 1942 Poland. There we sat nestled in between the garbage anxious. We all still thought we had found a diamond in the rough, and a hay maker of a hot dog was coming our way. On the wall to the left of us was their beer collection. Trophies of lager. Beer and I are good friends and I looked forward to the hair of the dog that bit me. But what is this? They also had a wide assortment of Boone's Farm. We all found good humor in this and decided that in the future we would use Papoo's as a humiliation for losing a bet. If a friend of ours happened to bet on the wrong NBA team, lose a game of poker, fall last in a foot race etc.etc. Our friend would have to come to Papoo's eat a chili dog and drink a gang of Boone's. This has yet to come in effect but I am assured it will.
How lovely! Our star of the show, borderline obese black shirt cashier, made her way over to us with our drinks. She carried Warren and Bryan's large sodas over in the wax cups and due to their magnitude she had them rested against her enormous bust. How lucky she was to have a couple skin pillows to rest her customers bounty on. She haphazardly served up the liquid and then brought over my Budweiser. It wasn't out of the arctic frosty, but it was cold and probably the most satisfying good I Purchased at Papoo's.
Then things really picked up. From the horizon a new employee emerges. She comes fresh off her break smelling of Marlboro 100's, and glistening with a sunburned epidermis. She looked like she was knowledgeable about meth and not as much about math. Dishwater blonde, small figure, early thirties, white oversized Corona T-shirt, and one of those been around the world twice and back voices. One might call it an "ass" voice. She was the bus-broad. She approached us and gathered up our trash like she may be building a nest of it in the back room. There was a paper bag with a cup hanging out of it. I figured this was there from an earlier customer who asked for his meal to go, but then found himself so captivated by the glorious enamor he decided to pull up stool. Our new bus-broad asked me if it was my trash. I said no, and she grabbed it with emphasis.
Bryan and I begin to banter. We get the giggles and toss around ideas for our own restaurant. We would call it "World Famous" and it would gain it's global buzz by greeting every customer with a gentle slap in the face from an elderly gentlemen. It's really that simple, and it would gain cult notoriety for it's sheer oddness. A dumb idea, but fucking brilliant at the same time. Warren becomes impatient and goes in search of a pack of American Spirits. It is at this point when shit hits the fan. I see no other patrons. It's me, Bryan, black shirt McBosoms, ass voice busbroad, some random girl not doing shit but standing behind the counter, and our three hardworking mexican's with matching jerry curls. The three chefs are in the kitchen coup and I can only see them from the shoulders up. Black shirt stretches up to grab some to-go boxes and reveals a torn hole in the armpit of her shirt. Bus-broad did what any good willed citizen would do. She capitalized on the moment and stretched her index finger to infiltrate the revealed fissure. Exclaiming triumphantly, "I fingered your hole!" This statement was followed by the type of laughter you imagine coming for jabba the hut. A slow hu hu hu from the staff at Papoo's. It was such a crowd pleaser meth-rat went in for another stab. This time with more annunciation and proclamation so the habla espanol could understand. Bryan and I are bewildered. Maybe because we both had sleveless shirts on they felt right at home and swung for the fences on that one. I know on the other side of the counter there is most likely a swarm of elderly that heard this statement and in case their attention was elsewhere our friends began a food fight. It started with ice and then lettuce and then meth and then god knows what else. The girl who didn't do shit. Finally did shit and lobbed a blue ball point pen in the direction of the kitchen. I don't know where it went but for all I know someone got a deep fired Bic that day. How could things get worse? Well they could probably give us terrible food.
Bryan was served first. The bun was un-toasted I noticed first. I either like a toasted bun, or a steamed bun. This was just fresh out the bag. It was your standard length bun. I looked for the size of the hot dog and the amount of cheese, but they were both engulfed in what looked like sloppy joe filler. It wasn't messy. It was all contained in the bun. Propped up next to the dog was a serving of fries seated in nice little wax tray. The type you'd get at a movie theater, or snack shack. Before Bryan delved into his plate. Warren's dish was set out on the counter. Warren had ordered some sort of hot dog concoction. It went, Bun, Hot dog, avocado, bacon shards, and cheese. The cheese was just two Kraft singles partially melted in on top. This is the first time I got a good look at the dog. It was similar in mass as a Red Vine Licorice, and was the color of Banana Republic Dark Khaki pants. Warren showed up and my plate arrived next. Warren saw his plate from the door and got excited. His happiness soon dispersed once he came closer. I ate my chili dog. When I saw it, I knew what to expect and my hunger had built enough that I just wolfed it down without really tasting it. I do remember the dog's armor was chewy and seemed similar to that of a sausage. I heard that a lot of the time it is made from pig intestine. I tore threw mine and tried not to think about it. It was about what you'd expect from buying a hot dog at a high school basketball game or public swimming pool. The fries were your average steak fries and they were slightly soggy. Bryan tore threw his and we shared equal distaste. Warren on the other half didn't get far on his. He was heated and upset. It was then Warren came forth with information on the name of his dish. It was called the "Perfect Platter". This got the three musketeers laughing. What separated his platter from ours was the addition of a paper cup full of potato salad. Potato salad to me is always associated with Botulism or grandparents. Neither of which I find salivating. He was done. He said, "I can't eat this shit." What I did next still surprises me. I don't know what came over me. I grabbed his hot dog from the bun and took two large bites. I think I did this because I wanted to actually taste the hot dog. Mine was covered in sloppy joe chili so I couldn't really indulge in it's true taste. Papoo's hot dog hit the bottom and the bottom dropped out. The hot dog tasted like halibut. It left a slight film in my mouth like an under ripe kumquat. I threw the butt of the dog on my plate, and washed it down with my beer. This is when we launched into our dialog of disgust. We were ready to bail. Methrat grabbed our remnants which was fine, but none of us had finished our drinks. My half drank bud went into the depths.
We were given three separate checks and we marched towards the register to pay. I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could so I elected my self to pay the total. The boys had already handed her their cards so it was too late. I paid last. I had a chili dog, fries, and a budweiser. My bill was $17.35, and because black shirt hunkered down over me as I signed my name I left a three dollar tip. Which astounds me as much as taking two bites of Warren's hot dog. We congregated in the parking lot and headed back home.
We all hoped the Laker's game that was on pause at Bryan's house would be the salvation we longed for after our horrific Papoo's venture. When Bryan's first brought to my attention that the name was Papoo's Hot Dog Show, I thought he was kidding and I Laughed my ass off. I had about the same feeling as when I've left a county fair. I made sure to take a picture of the menu, and the array of Boone's Farm crowning above Warren's " Perfect Platter". Bryan made sure to check the reviews on his sidekick as we drove home, and read one aloud. I'm paraphrasing what he said here, " I went to Papoo's and decided I'd wash my hands and freshen up before we ate. I walked towards the separated bathroom and caught a strong scent of marijuana. Before I could enter, three of the employees appeared in a billow of smoke from the bathroom and ran away." That about capitalized the experience and I can pretty much leave it at that. I'd like to suggest you all show up at Papoo's on a sunday afternoon and see it all for yourself, and if your a friend of mine I suggest you wager carefully if you enter in a bet with me.
"Here" was the east side of the bar. It faced the inner workings of the kitchen and the backside of the illustrious women at the cash register. The bar was laden in empty soda cups, overturned fry baskets, ketchup spills and bun scraped plates. I don't know why we settled in at the filthy bar. There was a back patio I saw out of the corner of my eye that looked pretty decent, but I was hungover, Bryan was high, and Warren wouldn't give a fuck if his last name was Horowitz and he lived in 1942 Poland. There we sat nestled in between the garbage anxious. We all still thought we had found a diamond in the rough, and a hay maker of a hot dog was coming our way. On the wall to the left of us was their beer collection. Trophies of lager. Beer and I are good friends and I looked forward to the hair of the dog that bit me. But what is this? They also had a wide assortment of Boone's Farm. We all found good humor in this and decided that in the future we would use Papoo's as a humiliation for losing a bet. If a friend of ours happened to bet on the wrong NBA team, lose a game of poker, fall last in a foot race etc.etc. Our friend would have to come to Papoo's eat a chili dog and drink a gang of Boone's. This has yet to come in effect but I am assured it will.
How lovely! Our star of the show, borderline obese black shirt cashier, made her way over to us with our drinks. She carried Warren and Bryan's large sodas over in the wax cups and due to their magnitude she had them rested against her enormous bust. How lucky she was to have a couple skin pillows to rest her customers bounty on. She haphazardly served up the liquid and then brought over my Budweiser. It wasn't out of the arctic frosty, but it was cold and probably the most satisfying good I Purchased at Papoo's.
Then things really picked up. From the horizon a new employee emerges. She comes fresh off her break smelling of Marlboro 100's, and glistening with a sunburned epidermis. She looked like she was knowledgeable about meth and not as much about math. Dishwater blonde, small figure, early thirties, white oversized Corona T-shirt, and one of those been around the world twice and back voices. One might call it an "ass" voice. She was the bus-broad. She approached us and gathered up our trash like she may be building a nest of it in the back room. There was a paper bag with a cup hanging out of it. I figured this was there from an earlier customer who asked for his meal to go, but then found himself so captivated by the glorious enamor he decided to pull up stool. Our new bus-broad asked me if it was my trash. I said no, and she grabbed it with emphasis.
Bryan and I begin to banter. We get the giggles and toss around ideas for our own restaurant. We would call it "World Famous" and it would gain it's global buzz by greeting every customer with a gentle slap in the face from an elderly gentlemen. It's really that simple, and it would gain cult notoriety for it's sheer oddness. A dumb idea, but fucking brilliant at the same time. Warren becomes impatient and goes in search of a pack of American Spirits. It is at this point when shit hits the fan. I see no other patrons. It's me, Bryan, black shirt McBosoms, ass voice busbroad, some random girl not doing shit but standing behind the counter, and our three hardworking mexican's with matching jerry curls. The three chefs are in the kitchen coup and I can only see them from the shoulders up. Black shirt stretches up to grab some to-go boxes and reveals a torn hole in the armpit of her shirt. Bus-broad did what any good willed citizen would do. She capitalized on the moment and stretched her index finger to infiltrate the revealed fissure. Exclaiming triumphantly, "I fingered your hole!" This statement was followed by the type of laughter you imagine coming for jabba the hut. A slow hu hu hu from the staff at Papoo's. It was such a crowd pleaser meth-rat went in for another stab. This time with more annunciation and proclamation so the habla espanol could understand. Bryan and I are bewildered. Maybe because we both had sleveless shirts on they felt right at home and swung for the fences on that one. I know on the other side of the counter there is most likely a swarm of elderly that heard this statement and in case their attention was elsewhere our friends began a food fight. It started with ice and then lettuce and then meth and then god knows what else. The girl who didn't do shit. Finally did shit and lobbed a blue ball point pen in the direction of the kitchen. I don't know where it went but for all I know someone got a deep fired Bic that day. How could things get worse? Well they could probably give us terrible food.
Bryan was served first. The bun was un-toasted I noticed first. I either like a toasted bun, or a steamed bun. This was just fresh out the bag. It was your standard length bun. I looked for the size of the hot dog and the amount of cheese, but they were both engulfed in what looked like sloppy joe filler. It wasn't messy. It was all contained in the bun. Propped up next to the dog was a serving of fries seated in nice little wax tray. The type you'd get at a movie theater, or snack shack. Before Bryan delved into his plate. Warren's dish was set out on the counter. Warren had ordered some sort of hot dog concoction. It went, Bun, Hot dog, avocado, bacon shards, and cheese. The cheese was just two Kraft singles partially melted in on top. This is the first time I got a good look at the dog. It was similar in mass as a Red Vine Licorice, and was the color of Banana Republic Dark Khaki pants. Warren showed up and my plate arrived next. Warren saw his plate from the door and got excited. His happiness soon dispersed once he came closer. I ate my chili dog. When I saw it, I knew what to expect and my hunger had built enough that I just wolfed it down without really tasting it. I do remember the dog's armor was chewy and seemed similar to that of a sausage. I heard that a lot of the time it is made from pig intestine. I tore threw mine and tried not to think about it. It was about what you'd expect from buying a hot dog at a high school basketball game or public swimming pool. The fries were your average steak fries and they were slightly soggy. Bryan tore threw his and we shared equal distaste. Warren on the other half didn't get far on his. He was heated and upset. It was then Warren came forth with information on the name of his dish. It was called the "Perfect Platter". This got the three musketeers laughing. What separated his platter from ours was the addition of a paper cup full of potato salad. Potato salad to me is always associated with Botulism or grandparents. Neither of which I find salivating. He was done. He said, "I can't eat this shit." What I did next still surprises me. I don't know what came over me. I grabbed his hot dog from the bun and took two large bites. I think I did this because I wanted to actually taste the hot dog. Mine was covered in sloppy joe chili so I couldn't really indulge in it's true taste. Papoo's hot dog hit the bottom and the bottom dropped out. The hot dog tasted like halibut. It left a slight film in my mouth like an under ripe kumquat. I threw the butt of the dog on my plate, and washed it down with my beer. This is when we launched into our dialog of disgust. We were ready to bail. Methrat grabbed our remnants which was fine, but none of us had finished our drinks. My half drank bud went into the depths.
We were given three separate checks and we marched towards the register to pay. I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could so I elected my self to pay the total. The boys had already handed her their cards so it was too late. I paid last. I had a chili dog, fries, and a budweiser. My bill was $17.35, and because black shirt hunkered down over me as I signed my name I left a three dollar tip. Which astounds me as much as taking two bites of Warren's hot dog. We congregated in the parking lot and headed back home.
We all hoped the Laker's game that was on pause at Bryan's house would be the salvation we longed for after our horrific Papoo's venture. When Bryan's first brought to my attention that the name was Papoo's Hot Dog Show, I thought he was kidding and I Laughed my ass off. I had about the same feeling as when I've left a county fair. I made sure to take a picture of the menu, and the array of Boone's Farm crowning above Warren's " Perfect Platter". Bryan made sure to check the reviews on his sidekick as we drove home, and read one aloud. I'm paraphrasing what he said here, " I went to Papoo's and decided I'd wash my hands and freshen up before we ate. I walked towards the separated bathroom and caught a strong scent of marijuana. Before I could enter, three of the employees appeared in a billow of smoke from the bathroom and ran away." That about capitalized the experience and I can pretty much leave it at that. I'd like to suggest you all show up at Papoo's on a sunday afternoon and see it all for yourself, and if your a friend of mine I suggest you wager carefully if you enter in a bet with me.