Down Home

Alan, a Southern gentlemen, considered himself a connoisseur of sorts when it came to fine dining. See he had toured all the spots in the American Southwest. I mean, the finest this great land had to offer: the Roadhouse, Outback, and Mama Sue’s Diner. Everyone he knew asked his opinion, since he was so respected in Sweet Home Alabama. With a frame around 72 inches and 20 stone, I mean 200 pounds; he knew how to eat. I don’t mean he was fat, because he wasn’t. Whenever he left a dining establishment, he tipped his Atlanta Braves cap at the restaurateur.

Alan, while on his way through his tour of the homeland, ventured off to North Lyons, Kentucky. From my vast knowledge of this land, I can assume it was the only liberal city in the whole region. Alan walked up to Boudreaux’s, so he walked in. He had never heard of this in his entire life, but a connoisseur never passes up a new opportunity. The host, dressed in a button-down shirt and slacks escorted Alan to his table. At this moment, Alan could see something was different. The waiter called him sir.

“ What the hell did you call me?” Said Alan.

“Sir” retorted the shocked waiter.

“ Just call me Alan.”

“Whatever you say, sir. Your server will be with you soon.”

Alan was puzzled. Words such as “sir” and “server” were never spoken down home. As Alan perused the menu, he saw a list of foreign substances. The Paris Filet and Marseille Salad sounded a bit out of his league. The drinks, of which Alan usually ordered a Coors Light in a bottle, surprised him. No alcoholic beverages were on the menu, except the $25 fine wine. Alan waited as his server came back.

“ Where’s the booze?” Queried Alan.

“We don’t sell that here. Who do we look like, Randy’s Pub down the street? Would you like our Dijon Wine?” Replied the waiter.

“ Just bring me a Coke.” Alan settled on.

“ We don’t have Coke. But we do have a fine import Cola straight out of Europe.” Said the waiter.

“Okey-doke” responded Alan.

“ Excuse me?” Said a shocked waiter.

“ That’s just a little expression we use down in ‘Bama.”

“ Sounds a little peculiar to me.”

“ Just bring me some pop,” an exasperated Alan said.

Alan, who had visited scores of restaurants in his day, had never quite seen a place like this. The atmosphere, he thought, was a little unfriendly. “Fed up” was the best word to describe Alan’s reactions. Life never was so complicated for Alan. People never spoke in such a weird tone. Maybe it was just some untimely melancholy, but Alan was starting to long for the Outback just outside of Macon, Georgia. As a few minutes passed, Alan began to grow impatient. He could see the elite individuals scoffing him. It was like he was somewhat of an imbecile.

Finally, the waiter, who never identified himself, returned. The lack of human interaction was really starting to irk Alan. “ Can I just have a steak and a loaded baked potato?” Asked Alan.

“ We don’t have baked potatoes. Would you care for whipped potatoes?” Responded the waiter.

“ What was that?” A dumbfounded Alan asked.

In a condescending tone, the waiter explained, “ They are just liked mashed potatoes, only whipped. Do you understand?”

“ I don’t need to be talked to like a child. I know I ain’t much, but I know good folk when I see them. You guys are just like them damn Yankees. Always thinking they’re better then everyone else. Well, I can take my Atlanta Falcons Visa somewhere else,” as Alan angrily left the building.

Alan rode in his ‘87 Ford truck for twenty miles, pondering who he was. Alan had always felt like an insider, someone who was easily accessible. Back home, you didn’t need big words like “sir”. Still hungry, Alan saw a Pete’s Diner on the right side of the road, so he turned his blinker on and parked his truck. Alan walked through the parking lot and saw some Marlboro buts. “ Hey buddy, what can I do for you?” Instantly, Alan knew he was back home again.