That's Coming Out of Her Tip

So, this weekend a bunch of us went out, ostensibly to watch Georgetown play Pittsburgh in the BIG EAST Tournament final. In reality it was me pleading with people to go so I would have people to distract me from the inevitable heartbreak I was going to suffer when the Hoyas lost. We chose a locale about a half hour from home because "uh...they have a lot of TVs...and parking...and beer" (that's how I sold it; sold it well, I might add). We got there right at tip-off (punctuality and planning aren't exactly strong suits for...you know what? Nevermind), and of course I was a nervous wreck. Certain parties tried to soothe my nerves, others were more than happy to oblige my fear of defeat. Turns out, the game wasn't even close, Georgetown took its first conference title in 18 years (the lifespan of the average freshman...crap I'm old), and a good time was had by all (except our waitress, who wanted us all to die from the second she put the drink napkins on the table).

Chances are if you're reading this, you were either there or you don't care. Or both. Probably both. The reason this is of any import at all is that I found out a shocking thing about some restaurants.

They don't all carry american cheese.

I know, I know. It's strange to me too. But it's true.

The worst part wasn't the fact that they didn't carry the proper assortment of cheeses. The part that got me was the way in which I was informed of this.

See, they serve an "Alpine Burger" at this place, and this burger contains meat (good), mushrooms (good), and swiss cheese (ehhh...not so good). One of my fellow diners was also interested in this burger. I mused aloud whether or not I could substitute a different kind of cheese, and we figured, "Sure, can't see why not." So I went Alpine. This is what happened.

Joe: "I'll have the Alpine Burger as well, medium, and can I get american cheese instead of swiss?"
Waitress: "No."

::silence::

::more silence::

::deafening silence::

::dammit Joe, say something!::

::ANYTHING!!::

Waitress: "We don't have american cheese."

::Joe reverts to pre-pubescent voice of panic because he didn't even look at the rest of the menu::

"Cheddar, maybe?"

Please note that the silence lasted maybe two seconds, but when you're blindsided like that, it feels like an eternity. Like, come ON, if you don't carry a certain type of cheese (the best cheese, by the way), SAY SO!! Don't just say, "no" and stare at me while I scramble to recover from the dinner-ordering equivalent of a shotgun blast to the face. We should have tipped her a slice of cheese. Or a mushroom. Or a punch in the nose.

So the next day I'm relaying this story to the family at dinner, and they didn't seem the least bit surprised that this place didn't have american cheese. I was floored. Who doesn't have american cheese??!? The Fox & Hound in King of Prussia, PA, that's who. So, Hound proprietors, listen up: more american cheese, less lemon-scented ass-beer.

My mother also made a joke about how I couldn't substitute american cheese because it was the "Alpine" burger, and the whole "Swiss Alps" thing...I didn't speak to her for six hours.

Side note - returned to "The Establishment" from the previous post later that night. The Discriminatory Bar Wench was working. I was in too good a mood to plot/exact my revenge. This is likely to become a developing story.