I play it out over and over again every spring, the big steak knives and what it meant to be near the smell of Australian beefsteak, with the blood and the grease and the asses booming shit over dark wood and neon. Heels clicking on the waiting deck, electronic beeper deals beeping like fucking dicks, and you could even smell the butter out in the street. The big butter, the jumbo sized beers, the loaves of bread with enough yeast to stave off a small French Revolution in the streets of College Station.
It was the spring of ’02, and I ordered a Bloomin’ Onion for my baby. I ordered an onion cut into 126 individual pieces so good, her eyes just rolled into the back of her head, drooling onto a plate of Aussie sauce and fried fucking onion. If it hadn’t of been for Alanis Morissette, I would have forgotten to breathe.