The now defunct Ponderosa was conveniently located right across the street from the local mall, our weekend hangout. We’d organize a posse of unwashed longhaired headbangers and then storm the gates of the unsuspecting restaurant, with its employees totally unaware that they were in harm’s way. A couple of us actually paid; the rest just sat down and helped themselves to this immaculate feast.
Our goal was a simple one: chaos. Our success would be based upon the size of the mess created. We would pile our scraps in the center of the table, eating with our hands like grunting animals. Our policy was to take one bite and then throw the rest away. Why waste your time finishing something when you can experience the ecstasy of the first bite over and over again? Our chicken wing death toll reached triple digits, with the staff barely able to keep up with our relentless pace.
My buddy The Colonel went far beyond the call of duty and snatched the shaker of multi-colored ice cream sprinkles from the unmanned dessert station, unscrewed the metal top and periodically raised the jar to his mouth and "drank" them during his meal. When we began to feel the ill effects of our crazed overindulgence, we popped peppermint Rolaids (I would always carry a steady supply thanks to my undiagnosed Lactose Intolerance, and the Nazi school system which forced white milk on me every day at lunch) and continued with our gluttonous expedition.
Keep in mind these events took place back in the days of “The Smoking Section”, a cancerous initiative that has faded away in these bland politically correct times. We would light up and take a “breather” between plates. This helped in prolonging the adventure and further added to our offensiveness to the other restaurant patrons.
There was a wide array of edible abominations to choose from. Crap tacos overflowing with unknown meat. Stiff hamburgers smothered in white, hardened grease. Undercooked macaroni in a yellowish sauce that couldn't have been much more than a distant cousin of actual cheese. A selection of grotesquely discolored liquids being passed off as soup. These were not for eating, of course, but for “accidentally” spilling on the dining room rug. Lumpy chocolate pudding was smeared across the table like an abstract finger-painting. Our utensils were used only to gouge holes into once pristine seat cushions.
Occasionally the pimple-faced waiter would come by and attempt to clear some of the debris from the table, but we'd chase him away with our dull butter knives and uncivilized profanity. We anticipated that a shift manager would inevitably remove us, but it never happened. Apparently this place was running on autopilot, with inbred teenagers and dope fiends heating up pre-prepared slop in the filthy rat-infested kitchen, while incompetent stooges were handling the registers and waiting tables. The Ponderosa was nothing but a ghost ship of imitation nourishment with no sane voice of reason to bring this situation back under some semblance of control.
After almost two hours we finally moved on. Chairs were knocked over, packets of butter were smeared on walls, and the floor was littered with random garbage and broken glass. The table was no longer visible, lost beneath a hardening crust of half-eaten food, soiled plates, cigarette butts, gnawed bones, melted ice cream and human waste.
And then came the final insult: No tip, although there may have been some loose change mixed into the travesty, which the waiter could certainly keep for himself, if he felt courageous enough to roll up his sleeves and go exploring through that vile heap we left behind.
I feel a mild pang of guilt when looking back at our horrible actions. Boys will be boys, yes, but we may have crossed a line on that fateful day. Our insensitivity to the patrons and the employees was reprehensible. I’m sure my friends and I are at least partially responsible for the hard times that the Ponderosa franchise has fallen upon, for it may have been our wasteful behavior that finally pushed the struggling business into the red. I must pause now and ask forgiveness from the powers-that-be for the sins of my pampered youth.
Our local Ponderosa restaurant closed up shop many moons ago, replaced by a short-lived Southwestern sludge-hole that also went belly-up after only a couple of miserable years. Maybe an angry Native-American tribe damned that miserable piece of land centuries ago, banishing all who tried to prosper from it into a vortex of failure, food poisoning, and bankruptcy.
Alas, restaurant chains come and go. The Ponderosa’s food was vile, but the memories are delicious, getting more sweetly decadent with each passing year....
You are such a nostalgia freak!
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