Perkins, North Bismarck, Sunday morning: the horror

Perkins, north Bismarck, late-morning, on a Sunday, gets jammed with Christiandom followers who for some reason willingly wait 20-to-40 minutes to eat calories and fuel (Americans are suspicious of calling it "food"). I found my Infidel self wondering why were we all here, with our Machiavelli smiles toward one-another, forcing someone else to cook our food on the supposedly sanctified Sabbath?

We can rule the taste of the calories out right away. Any Perkins manager, off the record, would ascent to this. It costs around 11-to-12 Almighty Dollars to get an average breakfast spread of two eggs, toast, hash browns, bacon, coffee and orange juice. Ergo, the price is not what's bringing the crowd in either.

Perhaps Tom Brokaw's Greatest Generation convinced themselves that this is what they and their families ought to do after attending sermon or mass on Sunday? I'm certain there's a better explanation. Still, I'm bewildered by it all.

Per my loving father's request (per my wonderful Swedish grandmother's request), I attended this breakfast meeting. Before leaving for Perkins, I woke up my brother and asked him to come along. I drove us up, we parked, and then entered the lobby.

We politely shoved our way through to where our other relatives waited, and while doing this received smiling stares and glances from the other waiting patrons. I overheard one waiting patron remark on the state of the crowd, saying, "My GOD!" under his breath.

We stood. It felt like all of north Bismarck was there. Awkward. Trying to face the right way. Trying not to stare too long. Three-hundred sixty degrees of smiling faces. For everyone. Excruciating. I understood why people went outside to smoke. At least they could stare at the nearby intersection in the blasting sun.

Finally, the family name was blurted out. I felt partially grateful that we would now be seated, at the very least to get away from the smiling and understandable resentment of my fellow Western Civilizationers. The hostess led us through the restaurant. We followed her through the narrow isles, dodging a bus-boy here, and a waiter and waitress there.

The hostess brought us to an empty table and said, "Would this be all right?" At least internally, it's extremely easy to interpret this pseudo-deference in a sarcastic and cynical light. While externally smiling, I internally thought, "What the hell choice would we have if this wasn't alright? Should I say, 'no, this won't do. Tell your minstrels we need a table and setting that's much more regal!'" Absurdity abounds. We agreed to the table. We sat. We pushed on.

Our beverage orders gave way to our breakfast orders, and during the interlude, I decided to assist my Aunt and Uncle. Their young granddaughter — my second cousin — was being what some might call a "pill." At fourteen months, she did not want to sit in the high-chair (or any chair), and she did not want to wait for the meal. She wanted to color on the table with crayons, she wanted to make incomprehensible noise and even cry a bit, and she wanted out of there.

My own atavistic impulse suggested something similar: deface the establishment, disturb the sensibilities of the patrons, and leave. Sometimes we stray from the comforts of cultural politeness. I have the decency not to act on these urges, although I know plenty others think of them just as much as I do. Sometimes I'm jealous when I see a child who gets to act that way.

Still waiting for our calories to arrive, I announced that I was going to take the little one for a walk. This was an outstanding move on all fronts: first, it naturally made me look like a Saint, not only to my family, but to all others around. "MFT for Mayor!" Second, it relieved my Aunt and Uncle from their duties, if just for a bit. Little ones have amazing four-hour bursts of energy before they need to recharge. Adult energy levels are much more paced. Two worldviews collided. I took action, and finally the little one and I got to get out of Perkins for a solid ten minutes.

After again pushing past the lobby jammed full of waiting patrons, we made our way out the door and found a nice spot of shade, and lush Kentucky Bluegrass on the west side of the building. I pointed to the grass and began to impress a cultural noun on her by repeating the word "GRASS." I sat. She wandered a little bit, now placid, even smiley.

Our spot of shade also happened to be on the same side as the kitchen. An employee came out for a quick five minute
smoke. I thought it would be difficult for him to enjoy it, knowing that each drag brought him closer to going back to his duty. Yet the cigarette also provided his neurosis and body with a little bit of escape, and a bit of re-invigoration.

I said to him, "Man, these people just keep coming." Cars, vans, and mostly large trucks continued pouring into the parking lot. His expression remained the same, and he said, "Yeah." He gazed across the lot. He threw his butt away, pivoted, reached for the handle, opened the door, and went back to doing whatever it is he did in the kitchen at Perkins north.

By the time the little one and I got back, my family table was about 3/4 finished with their food. I ate my breakfast, drank my coffee, and seeing that everyone else was finished, gave the "Well, what do you think?" This phrase is used to suggest that everyone depart from the finished meal. There are other variations: "Well, I suppose..." and the brief, "Alright!"

We all agreed to leave, and got out of there. Damaged, yes. But successfully. To be succinct: never go to Perkins on a Sunday morning. If you have to, though, make sure there's an accompanying toddler.

[addendum: upon reconsideration of the above Universal, MFT has decided to alter it simply say, "NEVER GO TO PERKINS."]