Grave, Mustardly Sins

Are blogs supposed to be about something? Or should I come on here and type away as if this were the internet equivalent of a Hello Kitty diary? I ask because I doubt this blog of mine will ever have a unifying theme, and it's provoking a tinge of self-consciousness.

There's a tension here: I'm self-absorbed enough to think my thoughts are sufficiently worthwhile to put into writing, but I'm not quite narcissistic enough to publicize the fact that I created this site to my friends or acquaintances (my two biggest fans aside). I'm typing, but why should anyone be reading?

The question is whether anyone really has the time to read this, when there are so many alternative, more credible sources for entertainment in our media-saturated world. I mean, why would anyone, let alone complete strangers, give a rat's-ass about the arbitrarily-filtered opinions of an anonymous, obsessive mind? Is there any point in my ranting on and on about, for example:

Fuckin' restaurants that serve hamburgers in this country should be required by law to carry yellow mustard. I recently lived in a city with a popular pedestrian mall featuring an abundance of restaurants, many of which offered hamburgers on their menus. Due to the subtropical climate (and certainly not to the quality of their product), these places were almost always overflowing with either locals or tourists, who visited virtually year-round. Therefore, none of the owners had any excuse to be ignorant of how we Americans eat our hamburgers.

Now, as podunk as it may be, the hamburger is a staple -- perhaps, THE staple -- of "American cuisine." Indeed, it's been said (by me) that the burger is the Communion wafer of our culinary religion, as it were. That is to say, the hamburger is practically sacred, and, as such, there are certain customs surrounding hamburger consumption that we should adhere to, respect -- obey, even. One of these customs is making yellow mustard available to the consumer.

Not too long after I moved to this city, I went to one of the better-regarded restaurants on the strip. It had an interesting motif: diner-esque food, all gussied up. (Quite appropriate for the pretentious pricks who infested the area.) Naturally, they served burgers. I ordered one.

When the food came, I saw that on my plate were placed two small, thimble-like containers for my condiments. (Yeah -- that kind of place.) "OK, fair enough," I thought. "So these douchebags fancy themselves as too good for plastic squeeze bottles -- whatever. A condiment's a condiment."

Whoa there, Nelly -- not so fast: a condiment isn't always a condiment. The ketchup was apparently standard, old-fashioned Heinz 57. Fine. But the mustard? Dijon. No, no -- unacceptable. I had ordered a burger, not a baguette.

I called over the waiter and requested yellow mustard. He shot me an incredulous look, as if I had shown up at The Four Seasons and requested a room with a vibrating bed. His expression told me everything I needed to know: there wasn't a single drop of yellow mustard in the house. Yet I was so flabbergasted that I had to let my indignation be known. Grey freakin' Poupon for a hamburger? Uh-uh.

My dinner companion cringed as I engaged in a subtly condescending exchange with our waiter. (Eh -- maybe not so subtle.) Even though I knew he hated me more than I hated him, I clung to the delusional hope that a customer-is-always-right ethic would prevail, and he would do what needed to be done to procure the desired condiment. But, in the end, it was me who had to jog a half-mile down the promenade to Johnny Rocket's so I could dollop a napkin with a healthy glob of basic, down-home yellow mustard. (At the time, I believed I'd emerged the victor in that battle. Looking back on it, I guess it was our fruitcake waiter who was pointing and laughing. However, I recently heard that this particular snobatorium is closing shop -- poetic justice?)

As it happens, shortly after this incident I ran into the same issue at another of the less pompous restaurants on the strip. I resigned myself to a fate of living somewhere where the community didn't frown upon this highest form of culinary sacrilege.

I guess the point is that whoever opens a restaurant, serves hamburgers, and doesn't stock yellow mustard is a Communist.

Well, now you've got an idea of the kind of drivel you can expect to find here if you come back. If you don't return, I don't give a shit -- I like this, and I'm going to keep writing.