Work ‘n Roll
Foreshadowing was there from the beginning. About ten years ago, a new Asian buffet was getting ready to open in a nearby town and the humongous bright yellow sign out front boasted “Work ’n Roll”, instead of “Wok ’n Roll”. That should have been our first clue. It was unwittingly being established as either a place of hard labor, a comedy club, or both. And we were about to find out.
After eating at the new restaurant, I felt like we ripped the place off–maybe we should have gone to the cashier and insisted we pay more money. For the entertainment.
First, our son warmed us up by opening for the main comedy show. My husband and I were dying laughing as our son told us about his day and imitated his girlfriend laying down the rules he was to abide by, when he took a family friend to her prom at another school:
“Don’t dance too close. Where are you putting your hands? You’d better be back at my house by 1:00 a.m. Oh, and the garter . . . you don’t need your hands up there, taking that off.”
Typical boyfriend/girlfriend stuff, except he was embellishing with a high-pitched feminine voice and lots of head-bobbing and finger-wagging. He was in the middle of another “Don’t you. . . ,” when I overheard two couples, at two separate tables, nearby.
One guy, we’ll call him Biker Dude, because of the long graying hair and unmistakable leather attire, was stirring up a conversation with Budweiser Guy (Bud T-shirt and cap):
“Is that crab that you’re eat’n there?”
“Yeah, it’s good. Do you eat it?”
“No, I’ve never tried it.”
“Well, you ought to.”
Mrs. Budweiser Guy chimed in and said, “I don’t eat it myself, but I love to crack it.”
No one replied to that, and I wanted to say, You might as well try it, since you’ve already paid the buffet price for it.
She loudly repeated herself a couple more times and I must have been the only one who seemed to hear her: “I don’t eat it, but I love to crack it”. Biker Dude went and got himself a few crab legs, sat back down at his table with Mrs. Biker Dude, and proceeded to ask where and how to crack the things. While Budweiser Guy was giving instructions (which was a puzzle to me, because he wasn’t even cracking his own; Mrs. Bud was doing it for him), Mrs. Bud continued interjecting a few more “I don’t like to eat ’em, but I like to crack ’ems,” and busying herself with another pile of joints and claws. I’m pretty sure this is why the name “Work” on the restaurant’s marquee was so appropriate.
Before I knew it, Mrs. Bud took a condiment cup full of melted butter already sitting on her table (probably Bud Guy’s), crammed it with crab meat she had so expertly and delicately picked out of its shell with her greasy hands, and proudly carried it to the other table. She set it in front of Biker Dude. While I was thinking up all the polite things I would have said in the same situation to get out of swallowing the stranger-fingered meat–thank you, but I seem to remember I’m allergic to shellfish or I‘m already stuffed–I sat gawking, as Biker Dude ate it! What the . . . who does that? He was not fazed. I gagged (and tried to convey the circus side show to my family) while Biker Dude seemed to thoroughly enjoy the butter-drenched delicacy and Mrs. Biker Dude acted as if it were the most common thing in the world, to accept food from strangers who licked their fingers before rolling crab meat around in butter to serve her husband. Thus, the “Roll” part of the restaurant’s name.
Before this elegant dining experience would come to an end and well before I could tell the story to my family (who missed the entire thing), the two guys decided they looked familiar to one another. Bud Guy had apparently worked with Biker Dude’s brother for 17 years at a local grocery store, before Biker Bro went to the joint. It’s all good though, because Biker Bro is out and cleaned up. He now stays home and out of trouble, weighing in at a mere 500 pounds. Whew. I was so relieved to know they weren’t strangers playing with each other’s food after all, because that would have been awkward.
I still feel guilty when I pass this dining establishment, that I didn’t explain to the cashier how very much I enjoyed the entertainment and force her to add another $20 to our bill. I give this new comedy club five stars.
Story originally from Oxymoronlover’s Blog, 2010.
