And other cliches.
After my five mile run, I distractedly wiped off the "good" hotel treadmill and nonchalantly got some water from the cooled dispenser in the fitness room (such decadence!). The fellow on the other treadmill stopped his run and greedily ran over to the machine I was using and realized that his eagerness was greeted with the realization that sometimes you have to let things dry off. Serves him right, the self-satisfying cad. Honestly, having used both machines, there's NO difference, save, MAYBE, that the "good" machine has one or two more buttons. But, seriously, how practical is it to see how much energy you're exerting in units of newborn babies? Not very, sir, not very (I used up eight babies).
So, I ventured out to get new shoes. My Docs have seen better days and my "new" dress shoes have already fallen apart. TO THE MALL!
The mall had nothing. NOTHING. I want something snazzy (first on my wishlist is the pair of two-tones the guy who opened for Carlin wore...red and white two-tones...that is mad fly, yo) and all Michigan has to offer is stuff in which one might get buried. Then, I realized, "Why am I looking for shoes in the Detroit suburbs?" I scrapped the idea and decided that I'd take it up again once safely in New York.
Across from the mall sat a Fuddrucker's. When I was a wee bairn in a steel mill, a co-worker made a big stink about visiting a Fuddrucker's (there aren't any in Eastern PA) and kept saying the restaurant's name over and over until he finally called out the obvious, "Hey, Fuddrucker's kind of sounds like motherfucker." Indeed it does, Biff, indeed it does. Needless to say, I forgot what he thought of the burgers.
In my mind, I assumed Fuddrucker's was not unlike a Hooters; a bar-like pestaurant filled with frat boys and truckers. Not so! It's for families! Families who like beef, and lots of it. Upon ordering and paying for my food, I was given an electric tracking device in case I made a break for it and tried to flee the area, in which case they would hunt me down and force me to eat my burger.
I was ordered to enjoy my drink and await my burger. With this kind of ruthless efficiency, I looked around to see where they were herding the Jews into the showers but found nothing. Fuddrucker sounds German, no? Then, my GPS megachip went off, letting me know that either my food was ready or the Luftwaffe was on its way.
Now, I "upgraded" to onion rings. Big mistake. If ringworm could be made into a side dish, Fuddruckers has the recipe. The burger, however, was both great and awful at the same time. The beef was, by far, the FRESHEST meat I'd ever had. The bun was like two flaccid breasts powdered with sugar caressing a lil' beef patty. I like my buns the way I like my women: serious, firm, and unseeded. This was a clown's bun. It was FAR too sweet for the meat. Huh? Yeah, I said it. It was so donutty what it took a great deal away from an otherwise delicious beef treat. I offer a picture.
So, overall, Fuddrucker's gets a seven out of ten. The service gets a Nazi out of five. Seriously, it's almost like the midwest charm is dropped as soon as you enter the place and the brow-beating begins. Just eat your burger and shut up.