^ No really, see!
This past Sunday, Lisa and I woke up with nothing particular to do. As is the case every week, Sundays tend to be my day to “catch up on life.” Which is just another fancy way of saying: grocery shopping, spending time with Lisa, and, if I’m lucky, taking a power nap (or two).
Since we hit off Trader Joe’s the day prior, and there was nothing really on the agenda, we both decided to meet up with a few of her friends for brunch in Boston’s South End.
As you can surmise, it wasn’t like Lisa had to pull my arm to tag along. I love brunch and Lisa was paying (Score!), so I grabbed a pair of jeans, slapped on a t-shirt, and off we went to this place that her friend, Carolyn, has always raved about, Gaslight.
Okay, this is the part where you can cue the Jaws theme music.
For the record, I LOVE Lisa’s friends. You’d be hard pressed to find a more intelligent and otherwise beautiful group of women in Beantown. I mean, come on….it doesn’t take a genius to recognize that I looked totally baller walking in with a group of fashionistas around my arms.
That notwithstanding, as any warm-blooded, heavy lifting, meat loving, Baywatch re-run watching, private area scratching, Fantasy Football obsessing male can appreciate: there’s only so much you can take before you basically want to throw yourself in front of a bus.
It took all of about three minutes from the time we walked into the restaurant until we sat down that the conversation turned from “hey Tony, how have you been” to the girls talking about boutique shopping, pedicures, and kitten snuggles.
Okay, it wasn’t quite like that; I’m obviously exaggerating for dramatic effect…but suffice it to say, I could sense my t-levels dropping faster than Obama’s approval rating. Badda bing, badda boom – Count it!
Anyways, by the time the waiter came to take our orders, I was in dire need of something manly to happen. And, since it was abundantly clear that this was the type of establishment that would probably frown upon me busting out my nun chucks, I did the next best thing, and ordered an omelet. But not just any omelet – a DOUBLE order omelet.
The conversation went something like this:
Me: I’d like the roasted vegetable and feta omelet, but I have a quick question – how many eggs are used?
Waiter: I believe three.
Me: Hmmm, yeah, I better double that order (giving myself a high five in my head).
Waiter (with a look of utter shock): Okay. I hope you’ll be able to finish it!
Me: Nah, I eat that every day for breakfast, it’s not that big of a deal.
Awkward silence. Waiter walks away.
Me: Wait, can you bring some Grey Poupon…….oh, never mind.
Fifteen minutes later, our food arrives. While the omelet itself WAS ginormous – taking up half the plate – it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, considering my typical breakfast that I eat everyday.
Get this, though. About ten minutes later, the hostess approaches our table and asks me if everything is alright. “Perfect,” I said, “thank you.”
“Well,” she continued, “the chef wanted me to say how impressed he was. He’s never been asked to make such a big omelet, and he wanted to make sure that it came out satisfactorily. Also, he wanted me to give you this t-shirt (pictured above).” In case you don’t remember, it looks like this:
I just about spat up my fruit cup. Lisa, along with the rest of the crew, started laughing out loud. Don’t get me wrong, it was awesome, but really? A t-shirt for only eating SIX eggs? I thanked the hostess, told her to tell the chef that it was excellent, and that I appreciated the sentiment.
Lets think about this for a second, because this is actually a very interesting commentary on our society. I did the math, and concluded that six eggs (at 70 calories apiece) amounts to roughly 420 calories. No big deal, and definitely not stomach shattering by any stretch of the imagination – especially considering I’m a pretty well built guy, seemingly whose pecs deflects bullets, at 200+ lbs.
Hell, the pile of greased soaked fries that my meal came with – which I elected not to eat – probably doubled (if not tripled) that number. The heaping stack of French toast that Lisa’s petite best friend, Carolyn ordered easily trumped my eggs in caloric value.
Yet, no t-shirt for her.
Isn’t it funny, if not downright comical, that our society’s perspective on what is considered “gluttonous,” and as a result, warrants a t-shirt, has gotten to the point where a guy walks in and orders six eggs and everyone’s world is flipped upside down? Yet, the breakfast quesadilla the size of a frisbee that’s filled with nothing but processed flour, sugar, and other “gunk” doesn’t even make anyone blink an eye. Thoughts? Comments? Beuller? Bueller?
