Today for Lunch

Brendan,

I’ve begun to worry that your foodie girlfriend is rubbing off on you. If you start going into detail about peppercorns again I’m not writing you anymore. The last thing the world needs is the two of us talking about food in detail. I don’t know about food and I don’t want to know that you know about food. All I know is that it goes in my mouth and, hopefully, tastes good.

Alright, now that we have that cleared up, I want to tell you about my “club” sandwich on the weekend. As you mentioned, I do love a good club sandwich. I would have written you sooner, but I decided that while I was on vacation (for a day) that I wouldn’t do any work. And yes, writing you is work.

Dad and I stopped in at Huckleberry’s in Invermere, because he says it’s always busy so therefore must be good. Dad got the omelet, which he thought was pretty good, and I got the “Chicken Burger Club”. I was going to get the regular club sandwich, but this idea of a chicken burger club was intriguing.

I don’t want you to be fooled, this was just a deep-fried chicken burger with bacon on it. But I have a general rule of thumb that I will try every club sandwich when the opportunity arises. I think there was a real opportunity to do something unique with this burger/sandwich combo. Perhaps Huckleberry’s isn’t the venue. It’s basically Smitty’s, plus four dollars and in a log cabin.

The best club sandwich I have ever eaten was in Sandpoint, Idaho. It was a small pub/brewery. They made everything from scratch. Even the cranberry mayo. The sandwich, I think, had sprouts and all sorts of interesting flavours and textures. Every bite was heavenly.

The chicken burger club was over par. I was tempted to say “sub par” but wouldn’t that actually be a good thing? Don’t you want to be below par? I don’t understand expressions. I don’t understand untoward.

Finally, my other rule of thumb (my first rule being always get the club) is that when you are in a Smitty’s type establishment—always get the breakfast. It’s the only thing they’re good at and that rule overrules the club rule. Take that one with you. Don’t get pasta or a pizza. Don’t even, as it turns out, get a sandwich.

Recap on the rules:

1. Always get the club.
2. Don’t get the club if you are in a breakfast specialty house.
3. Just because it’s busy doesn’t mean it’s good. Don’t trust the masses. Or don’t trust my/your father’s logic.

I hope this week goes well for you,
Rhett

Brendan,

So, I wanted to write you something real today. Something from the heart. But I find I don’t know that I have anything real to say. And, on top of all that, every time I get too caught up in worrying about reality I usually search out some magic. I think you know what this means—I’ve loaded the Harry Potter audio books back onto my iPhone. There’s nothing better than listening to Stephen Fry. Well, there’s a few things better. Sex, I find, is nice.

I just wanted to give you the heads up that you won’t be hearing from me (on the phone, I’ll still write) until I finish listening. I have to tell you that while I look forward to hearing from Harry and the gang (again), there are some things I’m not looking forward to.

• Dumbledore dying. I’ve gotten better at accepting this, but it’s still a dark time for me.
• My inevitable crush on Ginny. I’m sure you’ve had a fictional crush before. Is it illegal to have a crush on a fictional 16 year old girl? It feels wrong. But really I think she’s my perfect gal. I even have a crush on the actress who plays Ginny and I don’t find her that attractive. It’s just that she plays Ginny so well. I think if I met her in real life I’d probably be disappointed. Also, luckily, the actress is 18 now. So no jail time for me!
• The opener to every book. The first chapter in every book relives the last book in about 20 pages. It gets annoying.

I had some Chicago deep-dish pizza for lunch. I ate 4 slices. I feel awful.

I hope my owl finds you well,
Rhett

PS – The bird bites.

Brendan,

I imagine your water consumption was and is based on how much you sweat—and I can’t imagine your stew helped. Personally, I use deodorant, but I might recommend you look into antiperspirant and lock those pores up. Start every day layering a thick coat of that across your body. That being said, I must admit to my own weaknesses—and I wondered when we’d get here.

I’ll just go out and say it: I’ve been eating chili for the last two days. My body is like a well-oiled machine. Everything is regular and regulated. My body knows, while at work, that this is no time to make a stink. I’m here for the money and no one gives raises to a farter. So there’s no time for a gas leak.

But like a volcano, there is building pressure. And every day there must be release. Usually it starts as I drive home. I hot-box in my own flatulence. Leah walks through stink fogs all evening. I’d apologize, but Leah keeps making it. Leah also makes me keep a book of matches with me. Every toot gets another lit match. Sulfur beats fart.

While I’m on the topic of chili, I need to ask—what is so appealing about beans? I understand that they can replace meat (for protein purposes), but they don’t. I want meat. Not beans. I’ve never had beans that tasted better than chicken. Or beef. Heck, I’d even take pork.

About to erupt,
Rhett

Brendan,

Today, unable to stomach another sandwich, I went to Coco Brooks in the southeast. There’s a lot of strange things about Coco Brooks. First, it sounds like a pornstar or a stripper runs it—when it’s actually run by Christians. Second, they give their employees Sundays off which I respect in theory, but in practice not as much—some times I just want a pizza on a Sunday. And frankly, all the uplifting slogans all over their personal-sized pizza boxes don’t actually do any uplifting. Not for me. Not when I’m about to injest a pound of meat and grease/cheese.

I know you know all that, since it was you who introduced me to Coco Brooks. I just wanted to say it because know one else listens to me. My presumption is that, as this is a letter, you will have to read—not because you want to but because I know you believe in the sanctity of letters.

I got the Mile High pizza, a name that I can’t help but associate with the sex act. Perhaps it’s this connection that made me so self-conscious about what happened next. While I waited for my pizza to arrive, I crossed my legs and I noticed that I was wearing white tube socks with my Wallabees. You can’t wear white socks with brown/black shoes. It’s a faux pas. And yet, there I was, in defiance of that true and noble fashion law. What did I care? I had no one to impress.

Just then a cute girl sat next to me and this presented a real problem. First, she was cute. Second, I knew she was judging my sock/shoe combination, but if I tried to hide the fact I was wearing brown shoes and white socks she’d know that I knew how much of a loser I am and thus lose all potential interest in me. So I played it cool, kept my legs crossed and proudly displayed my white socks and brown shoes. Maybe she’d take pity on me?

Truly, my only true hope for coming out unscathed during this was that in her judgement she’d realize the truth—I’m married. Luckily, my number was called first so I just left and ate my pizza at my desk, at work and in silence. It was pretty good.

Greasily yours,
Rhett

Brendan,

I’m in a bad way. I don’t want to talk about lunch. It’s Friday and Fridays should be about happiness, but this whole day has been off. It started with Duke. He was mental this morning and I just knew the walk wasn’t going to go well. But I doubted myself. I thought—it will probably be fine. It wasn’t fine. I took his leash off and off he ran, towards the road (instead of into the park). Took me 10 minutes before I finally got his attention and tricked him into coming back. Then I got ready for work.

I prepared my lunch. And I don’t want to talk about my lunch because it was awful: toast, chicken, mayo, pickles. That’s not a sandwich. That’s the minimum requirements for living. But you know what I really wanted? Ice cream—at 8 AM. No day is going to go right when you want ice cream at 8 AM. I opened the freezer and there was a hole. A giant hole where the ice cream should be.

So that’s it for me. That should’ve been a wrap on the day. Then I read this XKCD comic. Sad robots. The only thing worse than sad robots is a sad puppy. Personification is the worst.

But even after all this, I had a backup plan—a kiwi. A delicious, hairy, ripe kiwi. Then, as I spooned the sweet and tangy kiwi flesh, I displaced some kiwi juice on my white shirt. This day is the pits.

Rhett

Brendan,

We’re playing hockey today after work, so I stopped in at “No Sweat” to get my skates sharpened. I went around the corner to the Subway to get my usual sandwich—the Italian BMT. I like to get it on an Italian Herb & Cheese bun. I order this every time. I like the consistency in my life. It’s something I can easily control and it always tastes the same. Except recently I added cucumber to the roster. I don’t want to be boring.

• White cheddar (WTF is white cheddar?)
• Lettuce, tomato and pickles
• Banana peppers, cucumber
• Mayo
• Pepper

Anyway, while I was standing in line, I tweeted something about getting my skates sharpened and how you “Better watch out for Rhettski”. It got me thinking about nicknames. I never really had any nicknames. I can only imagine that, as a child, you had some unfortunate nicknames. I’m imagining pee-pants or butt-face. Definitely something hyphenated. But it was always surprising to me, that as a popular kid, I never had any nicknames.

I mean, there were some obvious ones when I was older like “Rhettoric or Rhettna” (or the above mentioned “Rhettski” (but really my dad only called me that)), but nothing like “Striker” or “Ice man”. Not even my last name was used as a nickname. For a couple days, in grade 9, this girl called me “Rat”, but that didn’t really bother me because she was a burn-out and rarely seemed to shower.

I always wanted a nickname, but never got one. Now it doesn’t seem that important or appropriate. At least I had a delicious sub.

All the best,
Rhett

PS – You can get Erdinger at the Coop Liquor store (beside No Sweat) for a buck cheaper than anywhere else that I’ve seen in the city.