This morning Joyce and I dropped off one of the cars for a lube & oil change, then headed to breakfast. On our way to Cracker Barrel Joyce shared that she was looking forward to a quiet visit over breakfast. Now, those of you who've been to a "Cracker Barrel Restaurant & Country Store" (and who are therefore familiar with the acoustics of its dining rooms) are probably already sensing a conflict between Joyce's hankering for a Cracker Barrel breakfast and her hopes for a quiet visit.
We found the parking lot brimming with cars and the rocker-lined porch filled with walker-pushing patrons all conga-ing toward the front door. We joined the Xavier-Cugat-led procession and snaked our way past the front doors and through the racks of Halloween decorations which the wooden floor has so recently sprouted. Amid Maple Nut Goodies, Neccos and other vintage treats that festoon the hostess's station, the staff informed us there'd be a ten-minute wait. No problem -- we made a sharp 135-degree right turn toward the restroom alcove and thence perused our way to the far corner where one finds all the grandchild-worth garb.
No sooner had we noted that the stock of "bee" raiment (T-shirts embossed with imperatives like: "Bee Sweet", "Bee Good", etc.) was dwindling, than the god-in-the-rafters beckoned us return to the hostess station. So we again navigated that fifty-foot-long maze of festive ceramics, '60s-TV videos and near-stationary senior citizens -- but this time we managed it in a record two minutes. The hostess seated us next to the window in the far corner of the middle dining room, right behind the massive guy who very effectively blocked our view of the fireplace.
After a respectable period, the waitress (a cheerful Latina) came over and asked (over the din of forty simultaneous conversations): "Are joo reddy to orther?"
We were indeed. Joyce asked for the two-pecan-pancake deal and I ordered the "meat and eggs". But our prompt replies only extended the interrogation: "So wha woo joo lie to dreen?"
Joyce asked for water, but I (being the venturesome sort) requested milk, which of course prompted her to inquire: "Two person a hoe?"
I, of course, answered, "Hunh?"
So our kindly waitress (showing amazing patience with this deaf old man) leaned closer and repeated a little louder and slower: "Two-perSEN oh HOE?"
"Oh sorry. Whole milk, please."
"One carto oh two?"
"Are they half-pint cartons?"
"Jess."
"Two then.
"So how joo lie jur ecks kook?"
"Scrambled hard."
"Wi toes? ... or grizs?"
"With toast please."
"Bayco or sossaz?"
"Bacon!"
The longsuffering lady left, but soon returned with the correct order. I left her a nice tip.
After we'd left the restaurant (driving back to pick up the other car at the shop), Joyce and I laughed about how much more interesting what we hear is ... now that we can no longer hear.
I commented: "Well, at least we weren't the only elderly diners. The median age in there had to be over sixty. And did you notice, it was either groups of women or couples? There were lots of chatty women and not very many men. The ratio had to be three-to-one."
And naturally Joyce answered, "Who's Horatio?"
We found the parking lot brimming with cars and the rocker-lined porch filled with walker-pushing patrons all conga-ing toward the front door. We joined the Xavier-Cugat-led procession and snaked our way past the front doors and through the racks of Halloween decorations which the wooden floor has so recently sprouted. Amid Maple Nut Goodies, Neccos and other vintage treats that festoon the hostess's station, the staff informed us there'd be a ten-minute wait. No problem -- we made a sharp 135-degree right turn toward the restroom alcove and thence perused our way to the far corner where one finds all the grandchild-worth garb.
No sooner had we noted that the stock of "bee" raiment (T-shirts embossed with imperatives like: "Bee Sweet", "Bee Good", etc.) was dwindling, than the god-in-the-rafters beckoned us return to the hostess station. So we again navigated that fifty-foot-long maze of festive ceramics, '60s-TV videos and near-stationary senior citizens -- but this time we managed it in a record two minutes. The hostess seated us next to the window in the far corner of the middle dining room, right behind the massive guy who very effectively blocked our view of the fireplace.
After a respectable period, the waitress (a cheerful Latina) came over and asked (over the din of forty simultaneous conversations): "Are joo reddy to orther?"
We were indeed. Joyce asked for the two-pecan-pancake deal and I ordered the "meat and eggs". But our prompt replies only extended the interrogation: "So wha woo joo lie to dreen?"
Joyce asked for water, but I (being the venturesome sort) requested milk, which of course prompted her to inquire: "Two person a hoe?"
I, of course, answered, "Hunh?"
So our kindly waitress (showing amazing patience with this deaf old man) leaned closer and repeated a little louder and slower: "Two-perSEN oh HOE?"
"Oh sorry. Whole milk, please."
"One carto oh two?"
"Are they half-pint cartons?"
"Jess."
"Two then.
"So how joo lie jur ecks kook?"
"Scrambled hard."
"Wi toes? ... or grizs?"
"With toast please."
"Bayco or sossaz?"
"Bacon!"
The longsuffering lady left, but soon returned with the correct order. I left her a nice tip.
After we'd left the restaurant (driving back to pick up the other car at the shop), Joyce and I laughed about how much more interesting what we hear is ... now that we can no longer hear.
I commented: "Well, at least we weren't the only elderly diners. The median age in there had to be over sixty. And did you notice, it was either groups of women or couples? There were lots of chatty women and not very many men. The ratio had to be three-to-one."
And naturally Joyce answered, "Who's Horatio?"
18 comments:
You forgot to tell about how we found all the words and more on the milk carton word search game, and if I'd known they'd repeat our name three times as we tried to make it back through the flotsome and jetson, I would have left a funnier name like: deaf, party of 2
and you forgot about the old guy fat as me with a tattoo down his arm that we could not read. you said you had the wrong glasses for tattoo reading at that distance
You're right, dear. I'm also getting forgetful. How could I have left out the guy with the grocery list tattoo?
and I meant to point out the Christmas tree in the corner. The patriotic table of tee shirts, frames, and hats had been pushed back toward the kids section, replaced by the Thanksgiving offerings. (platters, frames, and autumn themed goodies). the Halloweeen display has made me hungry for candy corn for weeks.
no, the letters on his arm ran down his right back forearm, like, 'here's looking at you bob' or somesuch.
I just could not make it out 'cause the letters were smudgy
and did you see the Halloween costume rack of princess dresses and fairy wings and little Army uniforms in the new camo---but the baseball like cap had a big yellow star---I could not for the life of me think which branch sports a big yellow star. It is like they had a big red one, and someone decided that was toooo communist china, so they changed it to yellow to fix it.
You're right, dear. The 'Barrel has just about everything ... not to mention all the interesting people you see (and hopefully never meet).
we have been to Cracker Barrel when it was dead. But, they have been busy and doing well the last few times we have been in there...shoulda bought Cracker Barrel stock!
and the pecan pancakes were delicious. but, they are so big, I am glad I remembered you can order just two. and their bacon is tasty.
word verification: climphso or dimphso??
I guessed right! it was a cl.
not a d.
now the wv: inaschi
you forgot to mention the funny about when I sneezed and it shook the table. 'bout spilled your frozen mug of milk
Toby and I rode our bikes to town and ate at Eastland's diner. We should have gone to Cracker Barrel.
and how we discovered that the frozen mugs are so thick and the bottoms so midway, that they only hold six ounces! that is what they sell the apple cider and root beer in!
My oh my, Cracker Barrel on Saturday morning! You two are adventurous. It's nice to know that they are the same everywhere.
Joyce, I'm excited about "apple season" at Cracker Barrel. That apple crumb french toast is delicious! Great, now I'm hungry.
My grandfather had the same problem understanding the waitress when my Mom and Dad were taking him down to Huntsville Alabama to visit his son.
Somewhere in deep TN, the waitress walked up to the table and said, "Joroda yet?" Grandpa, "What the hell did she say?"
The waitress said again, "Joroda yet?"
"What the hell did she say?"
My mom said, "She asked if we had ordered yet."
Grandpa said, "Well, I'll be damned if I can understand her."
Poor waitress! it's a shame to laugh at this girl!:))) But she might have discussed you as that deaf old couple with her mates:)
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