I’m not one to write a lot about what I eat – food blogs bore me and smack of the kind of self-important crappery that drives the social media cesspool. Regardless, I recently learned something about restaurant etiquette and thought I would share.
My better 3/4 and I were on the way home from work (late, as usual), and decided to stop at a new Tony Packo’s for a quick bite. (From that, you can hazard a guess which city we live in. Thanks, Klinger.) It wasn’t a wise decision, though not uncharacteristic of many of my questionable life choices, and we soon found ourselves staring at a menu, trying to decide to what degree we would indulge in processed meat.
If you’ve never been to a Packo’s before (and outside our neck of the woods, its likely rare), they sell Hungarian food and are known (internationally, apparently) for their hotdogs, which are not tubular, but rather larger sausages cut into quarters – in half widthwise, then split lengthwise. To their credit, the dogs are tasty.
Of course, given the options available, I made yet another in a series of unwise food choices and decided to try the M.O.A.D. (Mother of All Dogs) – a foot-long monstrosity with options for chili, cheese, onions and all manner of compounding digestive nightmares.
I’ve never tried the M.O.A.D. before, and although the menu lists it as a foot long, this really says very little about the actual size of the meal itself, so I asked: “How big is it?”
I should have expected the answer “A foot long,” since I wasn’t clear about the fact that I could read. It did frustrate me a bit, though, and I committed a bit of a “hot dog restaurant faux pas.”
“No,” I said, holding up my hands, fingers together creating a 3″ circle, “what’s its girth?”
I realized, just a second too late, that there is no good way for a restaurant employee or manager to answer this question without the answer sounding more than just a little inappropriate, especially in a place that sells phallic-shaped processed meats.
The manager started giggling and said “I’ve honestly never been asked that before,” and he shook his head and mimicked my hand shape only, sadly, a bit smaller diameter, then realized that this was also an uncomfortable way to respond. “It’s not split. It’s a whole sausage.”
So, there we were, two grown men, having a conversation about sausage girth un-ironically, in a hotdog shop.
My better 3/4 and I haven’t been back since.