Post-Game Meal

Still feeling the effects from the 4th of July, I am definitely not pleased with my ability to contact the golf ball this afternoon, but the torture is over. Time for the post-game meal- the time honored tradition where golfers can reenact every shot they made no more than one hour ago.

"Yeah, we all remember when you skulled the nine iron on fifteen." "Dude, that was an awesome approach on seven. Too bad you missed the putt."

Its my first trip to a little place called GC Food and Brewery out in the suburbs. Food? Better than Decent. Prices? Reasonable if you order the right thing. Atmosphere?

Ummmm. Somewhat difficult to explain.

GC has the same problem as a fourteen-year old boy trying to find his identity- "Should I be punk, goth, nerd or jock?"

"Should I be a fine dine, sports bar, unique micro brew, or family eatery?"

"I think I'm a fancy, nose in the air, napkin in your lap before the server arrives kind of joint. My monotonous, bland, brown walls suggest that I am class with a capital "C." I have plants that require special instruments to water hanging from the top of the ceiling and several dishes on my menu that exceed $25. When the food arrives, it takes four people to deliver and it is served on plates that look like this:"

"OK scratch that. I'm a sports bar. My friendly neighborhood locale invites athletic viewers to stop in and see some grid-iron or hard-court action. I got burgers. I got wraps. Yeah, I'm super casual, situated in a Dierberg's shopping center with a Fantastic Sam's next door. You would feel comfortable walking in here in a Ram's jersey. 46" plasma screens litter my walls and there is no need to ask me to change the channel because all the best events are already on."

"Eh. No. There are already too many of those. I'm a unique micro-brew. Come in and try my one-of-a-kind libations. I've got your stout. I've got your Lager. And I've got your IPA. My serving staff can talk your ear off about what goes into each creation. Check out the sweet pint glasses. Take a walk through our back room-where the magic happens. I mix hops, yeast, water and ferment. Taste the rainbow. Mmmmmm...beer."

"Wait. Wait. Wait. I can't be identified solely on alcohol. I might as well be a strip club. I am, after all, in Suburbia. I'm a fun, family friendly spot that you can bring the kids to on Sunday after church. My large booths allow little Timmy to whine loudly about dessert and little Sarah to climb on the walls without distracting other guests. I got grilled cheese. I got chicken fingers and I'll make a PB & J even though it's not on the menu. Warm milk? Sure. If I were anymore family-accessible, I would have mechanical horsey rides outside for a quarter and places to change diapers and breast-feed."

I down my burger, pay the check and walk outside. My hair is blown back like I just got caught in a windstorm and I am exhausted.

It's tiring going to four restaurants for one meal.