The Ka-Tet Cantina 3

[muskrat]

Witching Hour Progress Report: Observations and opinons written, edited and endorsed by Edgar Dorsalfinn, Herr Director und Minister of meandering musings; or, Where the What Went Whenever We Wander Witlessly.

Whatever. Gee, my favorite old pub, closed since summer of 2015, has been reopened as a premium steakhouse. I've heard mixed reviews about the food, and bad things about the decor. Nothing but tall tables with equally tall barstools, high off the ground--hard for some of the older folks to climb up upon. No smoking anymore, natch, and my beloved ancient jukebox is gone. Sad stuff, kids. When I think of all the good times and great oldies I've had in that place my heart shrinks into a cold, compressed lump within my chest.

Nobody needs another dang steakhouse, sir--not when it replaces one's irreplaceable watering hole. Oh sure, my cousin (an old ornery Robert E. Lee lookalike) owns a damn fine bar and grill in the next town over, where I'm always welcome and well known, but The Etna Pub had a smoky, hole-in-the-wall quality that is sorely missed in this sterile age of touch-screen jukeboxes and tobacco free environments. Sure, they still serve alcohol, but the emphasis is now on the cuisine, while excessive inebriation is frowned upon. They even cut down the old oak tree in back to make room for more parking.

They now call the place George's Highland Bar and Grill, or some such hugger-mugger. They've really fixed it up, gave it some class--turned it all snooty, if you ask me.

I'll give it two out of five stars, I suppose--maybe more once I've sampled the Porterhouse. It better be thick and bloody.

 

[GNTLGNT]

Witching Hour Progress Report: Observations and opinons written, edited and endorsed by Edgar Dorsalfinn, Herr Director und Minister of meandering musings; or, Where the What Went Whenever We Wander Witlessly.

Whatever. Gee, my favorite old pub, closed since summer of 2015, has been reopened as a premium steakhouse. I've heard mixed reviews about the food, and bad things about the decor. Nothing but tall tables with equally tall barstools, high off the ground--hard for some of the older folks to climb up upon. No smoking anymore, natch, and my beloved ancient jukebox is gone. Sad stuff, kids. When I think of all the good times and great oldies I've had in that place my heart shrinks into a cold, compressed lump within my chest.

Nobody needs another dang steakhouse, sir--not when it replaces one's irreplaceable watering hole. Oh sure, my cousin (an old ornery Robert E. Lee lookalike) owns a damn fine bar and grill in the next town over, where I'm always welcome and well known, but The Etna Pub had a smoky, hole-in-the-wall quality that is sorely missed in this sterile age of touch-screen jukeboxes and tobacco free environments. Sure, they still serve alcohol, but the emphasis is now on the cuisine, while excessive inebriation is frowned upon. They even cut down the old oak tree in back to make room for more parking.

They now call the place George's Highland Bar and Grill, or some such hugger-mugger. They've really fixed it up, gave it some class--turned it all snooty, if you ask me.

I'll give it two out of five stars, I suppose--maybe more once I've sampled the Porterhouse. It better be thick and bloody.

....if yer azz doesn't stick to the vinyl on the seats-it ain't worth drinkin' in I say!.......

 

[Kurben]

this has been a very strange day. I slept but awoke about every second hour. Dogtired in spite of sleeping, Sweating like a marathon runner in spite of being at home in bed. Running back andforth between bed and bathroom. Not hungry at all but hsve been drinking some. Hope i'm better tomorrow!

 

[GNTLGNT]

this has been a very strange day. I slept but awoke about every second hour. Dogtired in spite of sleeping, Sweating like a marathon runner in spite of being at home in bed. Running back andforth between bed and bathroom. Not hungry at all but hsve been drinking some. Hope i'm better tomorrow!

....lots of juice, water and rest......

 

[FlakeNoir]

this has been a very strange day. I slept but awoke about every second hour. Dogtired in spite of sleeping, Sweating like a marathon runner in spite of being at home in bed. Running back andforth between bed and bathroom. Not hungry at all but hsve been drinking some. Hope i'm better tomorrow!

....lots of juice, water and rest......

What Scott said.... feel better soon (((Kurben.)))

 

[Doc Creed]

I know what you mean, Muskrat.
The little town I'm from is probably similar to your old stomping grounds, I imagine. Miles of woods and pastures stitched with railroads, as the crow flies, and one major intersection with a barbershop, Dollar General, a grocery store, and a municipal building. Cemetery down the road. Sound familiar?
Before the homogenization of my town there were several time-trusted establishments where you were more than just a customer, you were a friend.
One such place I loved was an old deli on the corner of a low-slung brick building, next to the thrift store. It always relied on the natural light coming in through the streaky glass and not the buzzing lights from the drop ceiling. A cow bell jangled as I walked in, to what was not much bigger than a Pullman car, and the place smelled of fried bologna and onions. The fry cook was an old gentleman, who probably served my dad back in the day, and actually wore a paper hat and apron. His counter was cramped with hot dog rotisserie and old-fashioned carny pretzels. A lemonade machine sloshed there, too. I'd usually order (and watch them cook on the grill) a bacon and egg sandwich on Sunbeam loaf bread. He piled the fatty fried meat on the mayo slathered bread, topped it with a fried egg from his hot spatula and sliced it and wrapped it in wax paper. He served giant fountain drinks with crushed ice that I could barely hold with one hand.
You didn't leave his store with lunch but with great stories, a few laughs and a greasy brown bag that felt like a gift.

 

[GNTLGNT]

I know what you mean, Muskrat.
The little town I'm from is probably similar to your old stomping grounds, I imagine. Miles of woods and pastures stitched with railroads, as the crow flies, and one major intersection with a barbershop, Dollar General, a grocery store, and a municipal building. Cemetery down the road. Sound familiar?
Before the homogenization of my town there were several time-trusted establishments where you were more than just a customer, you were a friend.
One such place I loved was an old deli on the corner of a low-slung brick building, next to the thrift store. It always relied on the natural light coming in through the streaky glass and not the buzzing lights from the drop ceiling. A cow bell jangled as I walked in, to what was not much bigger than a Pullman car, and the place smelled of fried bologna and onions. The fry cook was an old gentleman, who probably served my dad back in the day, and actually wore a paper hat and apron. His counter was cramped with hot dog rotisserie and old-fashioned carny pretzels. A lemonade machine sloshed there, too. I'd usually order (and watch them cook on the grill) a bacon and egg sandwich on Sunbeam loaf bread. He piled the fatty fried meat on the mayo slathered bread, topped it with a fried egg from his hot spatula and sliced it and wrapped it in wax paper. He served giant fountain drinks with crushed ice that I could barely hold with one hand.
You didn't leave his store with lunch but with great stories, a few laughs and a greasy brown bag that felt like a gift.

....wonderfully described my friend....I got to enjoy a similar experience several times with my dad when he'd take me in the road with him while he was selling.....

 

[Spideyman]

this has been a very strange day. I slept but awoke about every second hour. Dogtired in spite of sleeping, Sweating like a marathon runner in spite of being at home in bed. Running back andforth between bed and bathroom. Not hungry at all but hsve been drinking some. Hope i'm better tomorrow!

Residual effect from your night out celebrating?

 

[Doc Creed]

....wonderfully described my friend....I got to enjoy a similar experience several times with my dad when he'd take me in the road with him while he was selling.....

Thanks alot, GNT, I was overcome with unexpected nostalgia after I read Muskie's great post.

 

[Kurben]

Residual effect from your night out celebrating?

Doubt it. This was some kind of fever with intense sweating. Better now. At least i can think from point A to point B which i couldn't do this morning. Still extremely tired though.

 

[Alexandra M]

Wow..

Amazing and well said.

 

[pegasus216]

Amazing and well said.

It really struck me of how true the words are.

 

[not_nadine]

I know what you mean, Muskrat.
The little town I'm from is probably similar to your old stomping grounds, I imagine. Miles of woods and pastures stitched with railroads, as the crow flies, and one major intersection with a barbershop, Dollar General, a grocery store, and a municipal building. Cemetery down the road. Sound familiar?
Before the homogenization of my town there were several time-trusted establishments where you were more than just a customer, you were a friend.
One such place I loved was an old deli on the corner of a low-slung brick building, next to the thrift store. It always relied on the natural light coming in through the streaky glass and not the buzzing lights from the drop ceiling. A cow bell jangled as I walked in, to what was not much bigger than a Pullman car, and the place smelled of fried bologna and onions. The fry cook was an old gentleman, who probably served my dad back in the day, and actually wore a paper hat and apron. His counter was cramped with hot dog rotisserie and old-fashioned carny pretzels. A lemonade machine sloshed there, too. I'd usually order (and watch them cook on the grill) a bacon and egg sandwich on Sunbeam loaf bread. He piled the fatty fried meat on the mayo slathered bread, topped it with a fried egg from his hot spatula and sliced it and wrapped it in wax paper. He served giant fountain drinks with crushed ice that I could barely hold with one hand.
You didn't leave his store with lunch but with great stories, a few laughs and a greasy brown bag that felt like a gift.

That was very nice, you took me there.

 

[Doc Creed]

That was very nice, you took me there.

Thanks, Nottie. I appreciate it.

 

[danie]

I know what you mean, Muskrat.
The little town I'm from is probably similar to your old stomping grounds, I imagine. Miles of woods and pastures stitched with railroads, as the crow flies, and one major intersection with a barbershop, Dollar General, a grocery store, and a municipal building. Cemetery down the road. Sound familiar?
Before the homogenization of my town there were several time-trusted establishments where you were more than just a customer, you were a friend.
One such place I loved was an old deli on the corner of a low-slung brick building, next to the thrift store. It always relied on the natural light coming in through the streaky glass and not the buzzing lights from the drop ceiling. A cow bell jangled as I walked in, to what was not much bigger than a Pullman car, and the place smelled of fried bologna and onions. The fry cook was an old gentleman, who probably served my dad back in the day, and actually wore a paper hat and apron. His counter was cramped with hot dog rotisserie and old-fashioned carny pretzels. A lemonade machine sloshed there, too. I'd usually order (and watch them cook on the grill) a bacon and egg sandwich on Sunbeam loaf bread. He piled the fatty fried meat on the mayo slathered bread, topped it with a fried egg from his hot spatula and sliced it and wrapped it in wax paper. He served giant fountain drinks with crushed ice that I could barely hold with one hand.
You didn't leave his store with lunch but with great stories, a few laughs and a greasy brown bag that felt like a gift.

I love this. Beautiful description. Skimom, where's that ribbon?

 

[Neesy]

Sitting here at a local watering hole, waiting on a friend, listening to all this bull crap pop country on the juke. I'll show em...just dialed in a few Hank III tunes, starting with Straight to Hell. Put that in yer corncob pipe and smoke it, ya posers.

I didn't even know there WAS a Hank Williams III!

Hank's grandson - thanks muskrat

 

[Spideyman]

(((all in need or not)))

 

[Becks19]

Prayers and healing vibes continue for your daughter, Becks!

Thank you! She is doing better already. Sending big hugs and well wishes to you all!!

 

[fljoe0]

Happy Taco Tuesday!

 

[Spideyman]

(((all in need or not)))