Chris Walker Vs. The Death Of A Lady

“Feminism is dead, ladies. Put your bras back on; relinquish your right to vote; get back in the kitchen and make me a sandwich. Your successors have failed you.”

That’s one way I considered starting this. I wrote it in my head as I leaned against a wall in the corridor that connects the main room and back patio at Pub and Sub, a local college haunt. I was waiting to use the bathroom. Directly in front of me were two obnoxious fat girls. They were waiting to use the bathroom as well. The men’s bathroom. “Sorry,” said Fat Girl Number One, exuding superiority and entitlement. “We’re next.” Arms crossed, I smirked.

These girls could have been attractive once, I thought; maybe they even had class. Not anymore. Those days were done. Their thoughtless and vapid nature shined as brightly as the glitter they wore. After they used the men’s room they would undoubtedly go back to devouring pizza and chicken wings; they would continue mainlining Pabst Blue Ribbon. The clothes they brought with them when they came to college would continue to fit less; the guy they swore they wouldn’t blow at the start of the night would come that much closer to getting blown. I was witnessing their decent from grace in real-time. Granted, most of their “Freshman Fifty” had been gained before our interlude but I was still watching their ascent into fat, sloppy slutdom as it occured. It was remarkable.

When the door opened and the previous occupant exited, I pushed past the two behemoths (no easy feat) and entered the men’s room. “It’s okay; you can shove me out of the way,” barked Fat Girl Number One as I posted up at the urinal. I ignored her. Something you should know about the men’s bathroom at Pub and Sub: the only walls are the four establishing it as a room; with the exception of a small, chest-level divider between the sink and urinal, everything is exposed. This means if you decide to hunker down and drop a deuce while another guy is in the bathroom, he can watch you. This also means if you’re a shameless nineteen year old with a fake ID who has consumed too much beer, and you decide you want to come in, pull down your pants, and pee in front of a complete stranger, by God, you can.

That is, of course, exactly what Fat Girl Number One did. Meanwhile, Fat Girl Number Two loomed overhead, texting friends, or checking her MySpace account, or twatting about the situation on Twitter. Whatever. As they annoyingly carried on I found myself wondering, whatever happened to the iconic influence of Audrey Hepburn? Did it die when Hollywood green-lit Barb Wire starring Pamela Anderson? Surely, Hepburn wouldn’t approve of these ghastly whores. Virginia Woolfe would be ashamed. Even Julie London would shake her head in disgust. Buckling my belt and heading out the door I realized not only is chivalry dead, so is the need for it.

Interestingly enough, watching these little tradegies take place is the charm of Pub and Sub. (Or Pub and Chub, as my friends and I affectionately refer to it. We also call it the Rub and Tug, the Thug and Chug, the Drug and Plug, and the list goes on.) It’s one of the reasons my friends and I congregate there on Thursday nights. We show up for the $2.50 pitchers of Pabst Blue Ribbon; we stay for the laughs. No matter where you look or who you interact with, there’s always hilarity or adventure awaiting you. Sometimes both. More often than not, it involves chubby chicks who think they’re smart because they study interior design (or something equally useless), wear club attire to dive bars, and do their damnedest to set the women’s movement back a minimum of fifty years.

Chris Walker Vs. Freeman’s Plastic-Filled Hotdogs

I’m an adventurous eater. That’s a fact. I’ve eaten chicken feet, fish eyeballs, duck testicles; you name it, I’ll try it. The only thing I don’t eat is cantaloupe. That, and hard, little pieces of plastic, two of which I found in one of Freeman’s “natural” hotdogs this afternoon.

Not adhering to a vegetarian or vegan lifestyle I wondered, is this one of the risks I have to take in order to eat more “healthy”? By cutting unnecessary hormones out of my diet do I have to add synthetic, amorphous solid materials? Or is this what Freeman’s means when they describe their meats as “raw” and “uncured”? I could already see their new advertisement; Freeman’s Hotdogs: Organic and Nitrate Free, Occasionally Legos.

Right now I’m looking at these two, tiny, white shards of whatever trying to figure out what they are. I’ve read owners Jason Freeman and Noel Judai have a son; maybe it’s a fragment from one of his toys. It could be part of a pen cap. I don’t really know. Maybe I’ve made a mistake and it’s actually a new menu addition. Should I have paid extra? I know pineapple chutney costs seventy-five cents; how much is plastic?

All jokes aside, when Dave, the bartender at Chapel, told me how ever many months ago that a guy named Jason Freeman was opening an organic hot dog restaurant in Reno I was enthusiastic. I loved the idea, and I’m a big proponent of natural, organic, pesticide and hormone free foods. My first experience at Freeman’s was mostly pleasant. I ordered the “Bun Burner” and, despite the fact the sourdough wheat bun was deplorably dry and split in half before I had even a single bite, the vegan chipotle sausage, chipotle-lime aioli, jalapenos, and salsa all tasted great. (Note: buns are provided by the House of Bread bakery.) My brother-in-law loves Freeman’s “F’n Hot Dog” — two beef hotdogs with cheese, tomatoes, onions, relish, mustard, ketchup, and jalapenos, served in a superior onion poppyseed bun — and has been getting their food to go on a regular basis. I had intended on eating at Freeman’s a few more times, trying many different things, before making a final judgment but this whole plastic-in-my-hotdog situation leaves me at a loss.

Initially, I was quick to write the bits of plastic off as a once-in-a-lifetime accident. After spitting out the pieces, I even managed to sit in my office and enjoy the rest of my F’n Hot Dog. Writing that last line, I now feel ridiculous. Pieces of plastic in my hotdog? That’s unacceptable.

Part of me says never go back. Part of me says this will never happen again and I should let it go. More than likely, this hasn’t happened to anyone else; it hasn’t happened to my brother-in-law and he’s eating Freeman’s food far more often than I am. Nevertheless, it’s disheartening and begs many questions. Questions like what are the kitchen conditions? How much are employees paying attention to cleanliness? Who is making these organic, nitrate-free sausages? Mr. Freeman, himself, his employees, or someone else entirely? (I was under the impression everything is made in-house.) Furthermore, how does something like this happen?

Time will tell if I completely dismiss Freeman’s. Chances are, I’ll give them another go. I eat Eggs Benedict, after all; I’m not afraid of a little bacteria… or plastic. At this point, I’m just extremely skeptical. And if something like this ever happens again, please believe you’ll be the first to know.

LINKS:

Freeman’s Natural Hotdogs

Chris Walker Vs. Pegu Club

“They have a bouncer?” I asked rhetorically, eyeing the burly guy occupying the entryway as Pockets and I walked passed. “That’s unexpected.”

Whenever I read articles or talk to friends about the “best bars” in the United States the same names are always mentioned: Bourbon & Branch, Velvet Tango Room, Milk & Honey, Death & Company, The Violet Hour, Pegu Club, etc. I’ve made it a goal to eventually visit all these places. When I found out my girlfriend, Pockets, lives a mere handful of blocks away from Pegu Club I knew we had to go.

We went the night after I noticed the bouncer, a Saturday. It was around 1:00 AM and we were in need of a well-crafted nightcap. Or two. We passed the same burly guy as we entered, climbed the stairs to the main level, and were instantly hit by a wall of noise. The room was beyond loud. Between the music, and the voices trying to be heard over the music, it was near deafening. It was also packed. As I plotted my approach to the bar (which I could barely see), we were saved by a host, who lead us to the last available two-top. It would be the only good-willed gesture of the evening.

Maneuvering through the sea of bodies, I assessed the crowd. The majority were young and attractive, and clearly more interested in exchanging phone numbers than experiencing how house-made bitters, infusions, or fresh squeezed juices make for a better cocktail. I don’t say this as an insult, more as an observation. There was nothing to indicate Pegu Club caters to a more sophisticated clientele or is a venue people specifically seek out for high-quality cocktails. It seemed more a meat market than a Cocktail Mecca; I felt as if I could’ve been in any bar, lounge, or club in any city.

According to their website, Pegu Club is a place where they consider themselves “gatekeepers” of classic cocktail culture. “Our aim is to preserve the craft of a well-made drink through thoughtful preparation and respectful methodology.” Scanning the battered menu, I didn’t see how that was true. I did however understand why they don’t post a cocktail list on their website: it’s severely underwhelming. There were very few libations to suggest the bartenders at Pegu Club were authorities on classic cocktail culture. Out of two pages of cocktails, I only saw one drink I wanted to try.

That didn’t really matter, though, because by the time we saw a server nearly fifteen minutes had passed and I was thoroughly bored. In the meantime, Pockets and I struggled to have a conversation, a futile effort, even though we were only a few feet apart. When a server finally reached us she was completely disinterested. She was busy, and as customers we were clearly interfering with her job. She offered nothing in the way of guidance or suggestion on the menu, not even recommending the Pegu Club’s house cocktail, which they’re evidently famous for. Also according to the Pegu Club website, you should drink water with your cocktail; she had brought none. When Pockets asked what a certain ingredient was the server, visibly annoyed, said she didn’t know. Besides, they were out of it. What burdens we were. Clearly, we couldn’t order fast enough.

And we did. Then we waited. And we waited. And we waited. I know a cocktail, when properly built, takes time. This wait was excessive. There was still no water. Our server had disappeared. Did she quit? I wondered. Pockets and I kept trying to talk. It was pointless. Finally, through the noise I heard Pockets say something along the lines of “oldest bar in SoHo” and “wood-paneled bar downstairs you’ll love.” The frustration had reached it’s apex, and with the promise of cozier settings we left Pegu Club. I never even tried a cocktail.

Pegu Club is a place where they claim to “do lots of little things well.” I found that they do quite the opposite. For all their pretension and bold claims, Pegu Club is not remarkable. Nor is it impressive or unique. Maybe it should have stayed in the Gulf of Mataban where it originated. While Pegu Club claims to be the torchbearer of classic cocktail cuisine, it seemed like a place where I could order a “Cosmopolitan” or “Chocolate Martini” and not receive a second glance. Perhaps it is even encouraged.

LINKS:

Pegu Club