things learned at Texas Roadhouse
Due to a whole handful of reasons, mostly having to do with the lack of food in the fridge and my futile attempts to make it to the grocery store, we were forced to go out to eat Friday night. I use the term “forced” in all seriousness as I wouldn’t recommend eating out to anyone with little kids… or boys of any age. Because as any parent will tell you, eating out with two small children is a hit-or-miss situation at best.
Sometimes the kids wake up from a good nap, and put their clothes and shoes on willingly, and you have a uneventful car ride with no screaming, kicking, fighting, etc., and upon arriving at the restaurant find the place nearly deserted, and you’re seated immediately, and the food magically appears on the table the instant “I’ll have the chicken” leaves your mouth, the kids eat their green beans instead of throwing them at each other, and the world is just generally peachy.
Or sometimes… or okay, usually things don’t go exactly as you’d planned. Which brings me to the first thing I learned at Texas Roadhouse.
It was even written on our little buzzer, pager thingy and after we’d been sitting in that foyer area between the food and the outside world for almost 45 minutes, I looked down and noticed it. Right there in bold letters. “#17. CUT YOUR WAIT IN HALF. CALL AHEAD 334- etc.” I could not have been more convinced if it said hey #17. Yes, you! The one trying to hold one child’s butt on the bench and keep the other child from chewing on the blinds. You could be in there trying to keep their hands out of the peanuts instead. Call ahead next time, stupid!
I’m certain of the existence of a Texas Roadhouse conspiracy which keeps you waiting so long that by the time you’re staring down the mouth of that huge chicken burger you’re like SOMEONE get me a bib ‘cause this is the best piece of cheese covered bird I’ve ever drooled upon! Seriously, there is a conspiracy. Otherwise, they’d put one of those buckets of peanuts out in the foyer for those of us who forgot we live in the 21st century and DIDN’T CALL AHEAD.
And speaking of the peanuts. Here’s the second thing I learned at Texas Roadhouse.
Don’t teach your kids to throw peanuts. PERIOD!
And if you haven’t got a clue what I’m talking about then you should drop what you’re doing. Seriously. Get off your computer and walk, no RUN, to the nearest Texas Roadhouse and have a meal. And then you will understand. Because there is a bucket of boiled peanuts on each table and NO trashcan. As in, YOU THROW THE SHELLS ON THE FLOOR.
Confession: this was the whole reason we went to this restaurant. Dude, I know I’m not the only one who thinks it’s cool to make a huge mess that someone else has to clean up. And so clearly my judgment was cloudy when I thought it would be awesome fun to show Jackson how to crack a peanut and throw the shell on the floor. Problem was, that activity was only cool for about the first, I don’t know, ten seconds, and then quickly escalated into Olympic
Discus Peanut Shell Throwing, which ended in nasty stares from the lady at the table next to us and me being all Umm, that’s not my kid and I don’t know why he’s sitting at our table.
Thankfully about that time our meal showed up and we had a good excuse to confiscate the peanuts before Jackson made a meal off them or got us arrested, whichever came first. And then I was lost in mushroom and pepper jack cheese and chicken land where I couldn’t think straight because I was so hungry and did I mention the CONSPIRACY?
So around my mouthful of food I manage to get Caleb’s attention and say Dude, this was totally worth the wait. But I wasn’t talking about the food, ya’ll. And thus, here we are at the third thing I learned at Texas Roadhouse.
Hilarity is what brings us together.
The fact that the food tasted good was only a footnote on the Reference of Life, because if I’d waited all night to eat deep fried sawdust I still would have been there with the man that I love and the children we cherish.
And can you imagine how dull life would be without food flying across the table and greasy mini handprints on my shirt and cleaning mashed potatoes out of Jon’s ear and trying to figure out who stole the steak fries off my plate and NO YOU CAN’T GET UNDER THE TABLE AND EAT CHICKEN OFF THE FLOOR!?
Caleb and I exchanged a long look across the table as Jonathan dumped his green beans off his plate and stole another fry from mine. What’s there to do but laugh.
So that’s what we did.