We were ahead of schedule to pick up our grandpup Theo at daycare, so my husband and I decided to grab some lunch to pass the time. In a shopping center near Theo’s school, we discovered a restaurant called The Bacon Press I read the name aloud and my husband’s head immediately perked up. There were five other restaurants in that shopping center, but he did not glance at them. He drove the car to that side of the parking lot and bellowed in his best masculine voice, “We shall eat here.”
My husband was not alone in his quest to dine at this establishment. The eatery seemed to cast a hypnotic spell over every male within a one-mile radius. Men marched into the entrance much like the children of Hamelin marched to the Pied Piper. I admit it; I was intrigued.
A little aside here: If anyone is looking to meet a man, this is the place to go. Not only were men present, but they had no interest in planning a mad dash or escape. When the owner asked a table of four males what brought them to his humble restaurant, one of the diners responded, “You had bacon on your sign. We had to come.” Who knew that attracting men could be so simple. One has to wonder why they don’t make bacon perfume. Or do they? Anyway, a bacon-themed restaurant would provide more success for meet ups than Match.com, eHarmony and AshleyMadison.com combined. Maybe, dating sites and The Bacon Press could form some type of romance joint venture which would give new meaning to the old saying spouted by many a spurned woman: men are pigs.
Anyway, back to the restaurant. Being the intrepid reporter I am, I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on some of the conversations of the lunchtime crowd who drooled over the menu.
“This is the best restaurant ever!”
“We should call Mark and Dave. They would want to be here. Call them…hurry! ”
“I could eat here every day.”
“I would quit my job and work here if I could.”
I’m not a big meat fan, so the enthusiasm for bacon sometimes eludes me, but I did appreciate the large number of non-bacon choices on the menu, and the restaurant will also make any item bacon-free, so no hungry soul can make a bad choice. My eyes made a bee line for the peanut butter and jelly French toast so I put down the menu and prepared to order. As I watched my husband read over the meal options again…and again, I thought Hm. He has taken more interest in the words on this menu than any words I have written in the last five years. I have never seen the logical engineer so indecisive. He perused that menu for a good 15 minutes. I finally emitted an annoyed, impatient sigh, leaned across the table and said in my ever-so-gentle wifely tone,
“Pick something damn it! How hard can this be? I’m starving!”
Well, I guess the overly male patronage understood what my husband was going through because one gentleman jumped to his defense and said, “It’s just so hard. They have so much.”
Finally, he chose the bacon mac ‘n cheese with jalapeno peppers which I admit looked and tasted amazing. The other diners’ selections looked equally impressive from my vantage point. There was one odd thing about this restaurant. It was almost like a church. Conversations barely edged above a whisper. Customers ate with the same reverence some would show when praying. They were enamored with their food. So, while The Bacon Press might be a great place to meet men, it’s probably not a great place to engage in conversation with men unless, of course, you speak Pig Latin! Get it? I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist that one. For the record, I swooned over my peanut butter and jelly French toast, so the fault of no-conversation was mine to share.
So what can we learn from The Bacon Press:
- If you want to get a man, dress like a strip of bacon
- If you want to keep a man, hide bacon all over the house
- If Porky Pig ran for King of the World, he would win in a landslide, but he better beware of what they serve at his inaugural ball.