When I was a kid, I could eat a stack of them all drizzled with butter and a river of maple syrup. As I got older, I sort of lost my appetite for them. Unless it was two or three in the morning and I had a snootful of VO and Budweiser. After hitting the Fourth Avenue college bars and then a jaunt over to The Wildcat Lounge and The Bum Steer I would head up I-10 for home. When I lived outside of Tucson, there was a truck stop just before my exit. Now if you have ever eaten at a truck stop you know you can order your food regular or “trucker” size. Guess which one I ordered.
As I eased into the truck stop parking lot, I thought I really shouldn’t be eating this late. Then I went in and ordered breakfast. Not just any breakfast. No, I had to eat enough for three good-size people. Drinking leads you to dumbass things such as this.
The table next to me was a travel-weary older couple (back then everyone was older) who were sipping coffee. They had a sweet roll that they were splitting.
I could see the graveyard waitress through the greasy little kitchen window on the door. She was taking three quick drags of her cigarette before crushing it out. She popped a couple Tic-Tacs in her mouth, approached me with a coffee pot and a smile, and asked for my order.
“Trucker-size Chicken-Fried Steak smothered in white sausage gravy, four over-easy eggs, a hill of crispy hash browns, sourdough toast (of course with butter), and a stack of buttermilk pancakes, please.”
The Trucker-size Chicken Fried Steak was so big it had its own zip code, it was served on a platter the size of a satellite dish literally afloat with the artery-clogging gravy. The eggs (cooked in butter and oil) were piled on each other to fit on the platter so the little mountain of crispy hash browns had to be served on a side plate. Add the toast plate and then another smaller platter with 6 pancakes stacked neatly on top of each other and I had enough food to feed a small family.
What I SHOULD have done was eat a small amount and have the rest boxed up for after I woke up.
I ate every single morsel, including all six of the fluffy buttermilk pancakes which were the size of a manhole cover.
So, being college-educated and knowing the deleterious effects to your body from eating like this, I would at least have enough common sense to go take a walk in the Arizona moonlight before retiring for the evening. Right?
I went home, cracked one last Bud, fired up a joint, and put on Jethro Tull’s Benefit album.
Then I went to sleep.
Told you drinking makes you do dumbass things.