shake that rat

I used to fixate on — actually, I still do — the uncomfortable fact that my parents took me to see The Godfather when I was eleven. This bothered me a lot. What were they thinking? What kind of parent subjects an impressionable child to that kind of gritty violence? Were there no babysitters available? Did they discuss this and conclude that, as responsible parents, this was an admirable thing to do? I even wrote a lengthy blog post about this a few years ago, so the people that I couldn't tell in person wouldn't miss out on some serious parent shaming.

A few nights ago, I was scanning the multitude of entertainment options available through my cable television provider. I stopped at Turner Classic Movies — one of my favorites — to see what they were offering. I scrolled through to the schedule and soon found myself viewing the movies that TCM reserves for the wee hours of weekend nights — a period they refer to as "The Underground." While most folks are fast asleep, Turner Classic presents films that fall into the category of "cult." Just after midnight on Saturday, such forgotten gems as Coffy starring an ass-kicking Pam Grier and Hillbillys in a Haunted House, a painfully campy romp that Jayne Mansfield turned down, are screened for the pleasure of insomniacs everywhere.

At 3:45 a.m., Turner Classic presented the 1971 thriller Willard, a heartwarming tale of an awkward young man who befriends a bunch of rats. This was followed by its 1972 sequel, the equally preposterous Ben, featuring a cast of every character actor the 1970s had to offer. An unexplainable wave of excitement shot through me and I instinctively set the DVR to record both movies. 

I hadn't seen either one of these movies in years! Decades! On Sunday morning, I set myself up with a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee and settled into the den sofa for a "blast-from-the-past" double feature. I remember loving these movies when I was a kid. Hey, what's not to love? It had Ernest Borgnine, excitable "Commander McHale" playing against his TV type (but not movie type, as he portrayed numerous assholes on the silver screen) as Willard's asshole boss. It had the eccentrically other-worldly Elsa Lanchester at the end of her illustrious career as Willard's mother, acting as though she didn't get the same script as the rest of the cast. There was lovely waif Sondra Locke as Willard's pseudo love interest and a supporting assortment of characters from TV including J. Pat O'Malley (Google him, you'll know him) and the delightfully daffy Jody Gilbert, who made a career of playing "Woman" or "Fat Woman" in 115 screen credits. With newcomer Bruce Davison (who has gone on to a five-decade career that included an Oscar nomination) in the title role, Willard was a typical 70s schlock horror film. It was a low-budget, zero production value, poorly-acted 95 minutes of dreck... and I loved it! Movies in the 70s were churned out with assembly-line regard. They followed trends and genres and there was very little originality. Actors wore, what seemed like, their own street clothes — or maybe costumes just mimicked the brightly-colored polyester fashions of the day. It certainly did not try to top Citizen Kane and that certainly was not its goal. It was just crappy entertainment and it delivered. 

Mom and Dad's guide
to parenting

While I watched and chuckled at the over-dramatic antics flashing across my television, remembering my first view of this film, something dawned on me. I saw Willard at a Saturday afternoon matinee at the Parkwood Theater in 1971. I was ten. Ten years old! I went with friends. My mom most likely drove us there in her lime green Rambler, dropping us off and providing me with a few dollars for popcorn and candy. She was well aware of what sort of movie Willard was, as our television was bombarded with ads for the movie. They must have caught Ernest Borgnine shilling on Johnny Carson's show, explaining how the stunts and effects were accomplished after running a promo clip for the audience. So, what was she thinking? Why would she allow a ten-year old to see this? This was not a film for a ten-year old! I should have been seeing Bedknobs and Broomsticks or Million Dollar Duck or The Barefoot Executive or any number of movies more suitable for a ten-year old. Not a movie where a pack of hungry rats rip "Commander McHale" apart right before your eyes. So, I shouldn't be surprised that, a year later, my parents thought it was a fine idea to take me to see The Godfather. After all, once I saw thousands of rats gnaw through a wooden door and attack the once-sympathetic Willard, watching a helpless James Caan get riddled with thousands of rounds of machine gun fire was nothing.... I guess. And that severed horse's head? Piece of cake.

Perhaps my Mom and Dad should have read a good book on parenting skills after they finished Mario Puzo's tale of "family."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let's give 'em something to talk about

When I'm not drawing stupid pictures or writing rambling blog posts or exposing violators of the "Dude, It's Rude" policy on my daily train commute, I work as a graphic designer at a large chain of bakeries*. They have locations up and down the East Coast and recently expanded to the Midwest. My company employs many supporting staff in addition to the 400+ bakers that are the lifeblood of the business. After all, where would a bakery be without experts in flour and mixing and frosting?

I don't work here.

One of the responsibilities in my job, in addition to producing long, wordy informational sheets detailing cake ingredients and regular newsletters informing customers of breaking news in the world of baking, is creating advertising for various publications. These ads are requested through a section of the company's intranet, on a page plainly labeled, "Advertising." Here, a selection of ad layouts is displayed. Once the appropriate design is chosen, a small form is filled out with pertinent information for getting the ad created (size, color limitations, recipients contact information, as well as the identity of the requester) and submitted. I, then, receive an automatically-generated email with the request. Shortly afterwards, using a set of previously prepared templates, I create the ad to the submitted specifications and send it off to the requester for review and eventual approval. Once approved, I send the completed, camera-ready ad to the publication and we are done. Simple? You'd be surprised.

Bakers are interesting people. They seem to believe that baking is the most important profession on earth. The also seem to believe that bakers possess a far superior intelligence than, say, police officers or barbers or postal workers or artists, for that matter. Somehow, working with hot ovens and proofing boxes makes them experts in all professions, regardless of any special training or years of experience other vocations may require.

Here either.

Recently, I received an indirect request from two bakers, via an email chain, on which I was copied. At no time was I actually addressed in the course of the correspondence. I was merely referenced and the fact that an ad was needed was discussed. Surmising that no official ad request was going to be made, I took it upon myself to be proactive and create an ad. Through an email attachment that I discovered on the third "go-round," I was able to find a spec sheet from the organization. The ad in question was for a small theater presenting their annual program of classical music. I chose an appropriate layout — featuring a photo of an orchestra — and prepared an ad to send to these two bakers for review.

I finished the ad, created a PDF (which is standard procedure) and sent it off, along with my regular accompanying email copy:

"Attached please find a PDF of the ad, as requested. Please review and reply with edits or your approval. Once approved, I will send this ad to the organization.
Thank you. Josh."

Within seconds of clicking the "send" button, I received a reply from one of the bakers. His single-line, signature-less correspondence read:

"Is this ad in black and white?"

I reread the ad specifications on the original solicitation from the theater (that was first sent to the bakers before it was attached to the email on which I was copied). Printed under the available ad sizes were the words: "All ads will be printed in black and white." I immediately and dutifully responded:

"Yes, according to the ad solicitation from the theater, all ad will be printed in black and white."

The baker replied with three words, and, what I interpreted as, an air of dismissive disgust:

"What a waste."

I wasn't sure how to take that. Perhaps the theater could not afford to print a program booklet in full color. It is a small community theater and full-color printing can lean towards expensive. I wasn't sure if his disdain was directed at me, as though I determined that this and all ads would run in monochrome. So, I just didn't reply. I just waited for the other baker who "requested" the ad to weigh in.

He did. Indirectly. He replied to a representative from the theater, informing her that a check would be sent by his assistant and an ad would be sent by "my colleague, Josh Pincus." (I'm a colleague. Whaddaya know?) I took that as an approval from Baker Number Two, so I sent the ad. All finished.

But not really.

Nearly two hours after I sent the ad to the theater, Baker Number One, once again, chimed in. He interjected:

"It appears we have no choice. I assume that none of you have a black and white TV."

It got no response from anyone on the original email chain. I honestly don't know what it means. What I do know is:

1. I sent the ad to the theater
2. I got receipt confirmation for the ad
3. I will never be able to figure out bakers.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* If you have been paying attention, you know that I do not work at a bakery. 

welcome to the grand illusion

I actually wrote this post almost one year ago to the day. I just never got around to publishing it, Coincidentally, the holiday that I reference — and the subsequent annual celebration — just occurred this past weekend. It is interesting to note that the events that I describe were repeated nearly identically as they had a year ago. This leads me to believe that I could just publish this post every year, at this time, and save myself some writing.

My in-laws had an annual gathering at their house. The occasion was the holiday of Sukkot, a celebration that takes some explaining for the uninitiated. Luckily, I have written about Sukkot before, so you can find the explanation of the holiday here. It may not be the most accurate explanation but, after all, isn't that why you are here? To relish my inaccuracies? If wanted accuracy, you could just "Google" stuff. You're welcome.

Hours before the first guests arrived, my wife was busy in the kitchen. She coordinated a precision "assembly line" of trays filled with hors d'oeuvres. As one tray went into the oven another came out. With the indispensable help of my niece, the process of getting the food prepared for a houseful of hungry people became a regimented ballet. Mrs. P's cousin, an invited guest, even pitched in to plate appetizers and bring them to the serving table. Between the three of them, the place looked inviting and the food was stocked to the delight and appreciation of the multitude of freeloaders guests.

Then there was Simone. Simone was her regular self. She took great care in dishing out the few salads the she brought or prepared there. She sort of shuffled some items around on the kitchen counter, giving the illusion that she was actually doing something constructive or helpful. She checked the status of  the hors d'oeuvres baking in the oven exactly once before retreating to join the rest of the guests that she invited... never setting foot back in the kitchen to see if her assistance was needed.

I have my doubts. 

The table looked beautiful and, thanks to Mrs. P and my darling niece, the food offerings were never sparse. There were mini hot dogs in puff pastry, latkes, sweet and sour meatballs and their vegetarian counterparts (or so I was told) and much much more, including an array of baked goods for which my wife is renowned. At the end of the afternoon, as guests thanked my in-laws and said their farewells, Simone disappeared or faked an injury or some such other bullshit. Mrs. P cleared the serving table, with help from her father and even me. My spouse hand-washed the delicate dishes and loaded the dishwasher with the sturdier plates and utensils. I helped to put away what remnants of leftovers were, well, left over. Simone, spooned her salads back into their containers and loaded them into a bag to take to her home, along with a few bottles of wine that were brought by visitors. She barked for her immediate family and, as they say, "got the fuck out of Dodge,"

Mrs. Pincus made sure her parent's kitchen and dining room looked exactly as it did before a horde of of guests filled the house. Satisfied that everything was in order, we headed home. But first, we thanked my in-laws for hosting. I don't recall Simone doing even that.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I saw the harbor lights

Here's a fun fact: When the Food Network conceived the show Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives and offered hosting duties to Guy Fieri, they had to explain what exactly a diner was to the boorish, peroxide-blonde celebrity chef. He just could not grasp the concept, despite being a "restaurateur"* for over twenty years.

However, anyone who grew up on the East Coast — specifically in close proximity to New Jersey — is very familiar with diners and all they have to offer. Poor, derided New Jersey is home to the largest collection of diners in the world — a claim that is completely understandable. A drive through any small town (Jersey has a lot of them) will reveal scenery regularly dotted with gleaming chrome eateries. Diner menus are renowned for their encyclopedic proportions, offering page after laminated page of every possible configuration of meal from hearty breakfasts to full-course dinners (with soup or salad, choice of two vegetables and Jell-o or rice pudding for dessert) to late-night snacks. Even those watching their weight need not worry, as diners notoriously offer "lo-cal" versions of popular dishes. Diner owners seem to think that a hamburger served with peaches and cottage cheese constitutes suitable diet fare. Every diner offers pretty much the same, abundant selection and the same quality food. Not great, but somehow, comforting. After all, it's kind of difficult to screw up eggs or a tuna melt.

I have always loved eating in diners. They are a fascinating time capsule, a place where eras from the past remain a part of the present. What is really fascinating  is that, no matter where they are located, they are all pretty much the same. Same set up. Same decor, Same wait staff. You know what i mean. That teased-haired woman with the doily on her head and too much rouge on her cheeks, her voice roughened by years of cigarette smoke, her vocabulary peppered with lots of "hon"s and "sweetie"s and "not a problem"s. My dad's favorite diner was The Heritage, a place just a few blocks from our house. Our family ate there often. My dad ate breakfast there every weekday morning for decades, and after my mom died, he ate every meal there. The Heritage had a waitress that fit that description. As a matter of fact, all of their waitresses fit that description.

This past summer, Mrs. Pincus and I took regular drives to and from Atlantic City. Sometimes, we went to spend a day on the beach. Sometimes, we went to take care of other obligations. One evening, we were driving back home to Philadelphia. As we drove, we discussed our options for dinner. Growing weary of pizza and sandwiches from Wawa (we love 'em, but...), we decided to stop at one of the many diners that we usually pass on our routine transversing of Route 30. The narrow, mostly two-lane, highway that is Route 30 snakes through many small towns — Pomona, Absecon, Egg Harbor City, Chesilhurst, Elwood, Hammonton — in Southern New Jersey. For a lot of these tiny burgs, the only place to eat is a diner. Just ahead of us, between a church and an Auto Zone, we spotted the soft glowing neon of the Harbor Diner. But this time, we stopped.

There's a light....

The Harbor Diner is pretty unspectacular. It's chrome-clad exterior is similar to a thousand other diners on Route 30 and throughout South Jersey. Inside, the faux leather booths, silver-flecked Formica counter and other characteristics were, again, as nondescript as any other establishment in its category. A young lady grabbed two hefty menus and directed us to a booth along the front of the narrow building. We scanned the numerous offerings for something that did not include meat. On most diner menus, the vegetarian-friendly options are plentiful. I decided on an entree from the typewritten dinner menu that was attached with a clip to the pre-printed menu, expanding the selections by at least 30. The waitress — another young lady who bore all the signs of evolving into the waitress I described earlier — deposited glasses of water on our table and asked if we were ready to order. My wife ordered a lettuce and tomato club sandwich, an assemblage that sometimes requires a bit of explanation and garners strange looks when it is made clear that no bacon is to be included. However, our waitress scribbled the order on a pad without so much as a blink. I ordered grilled salmon and was promptly informed that salmon was not available. I settled, instead, for fried flounder, a diner staple and a point of misty reference from my youth. I ordered fried flounder at The Heritage Diner more times that I can remember. A short time later, our food arrived. It was typical diner food and it was good. Really good. Afterwards, Mrs. P got rice pudding to take home.

A week or so later, we stopped at the Harbor Diner. This time we were with our son and his girlfriend, returning from a relaxing day on the Atlantic City beach. Our family was greeted by the staff of the Harbor Diner as though we  were regulars. We ordered and we all enjoyed our choices. It was a good meal, nothing spectacular or exotic. Just good food at ridiculously cheap prices.

Cluck and Z with Murphy on the side

A few weeks went by and, once again, Mrs. P and I found ourselves at the Harbor Diner. This time it was late, nearly 11 PM. We looked over the menu and decided to have breakfast nine hours early. Mrs. Pincus ordered sunny-side up eggs, toast and home fried potatoes. Strangely, the preparation of the eggs required a bit of additional explanation. The waitress asked if my wife if she wanted her sunny-side up eggs "over easy." My wife smiled and clarified, "No, sunny-side up." The waitress nodded without further expression and jotted something down on her little pad. I ordered a mushroom-cheese omelette and its standard accompaniments. When our food was brought out, I promptly took a picture of my classic-looking platter and posted the result on Instagram. Google Maps, into which I am automatically logged on, asked If I wished to post my photo to the gallery created for the Harbor Diner. I happily accepted, uploaded my photo and then dug into my late dinner/early breakfast.

A few days later, I got an alert from Google. Someone had a question for me about the Harbor Diner, based on the photo I posted, no doubt. I clicked the notice and this eloquent, astute dissertation popped up:

I read it. And reread it. And reread it again. Technically, it wan't a question. Obviously, this fellow was disappointed with his visit to our newly discovered. eatery. Even after several run-throughs, I was still confused by this poor customer's sentiment. His anger seemed to have totally obliterated his ability to use punctuation, save for a set of misplaced ellipses. That aside, I sort of surmised that he saw a young lady (presumably a waitress, although he does not make that clear) smoking in the "ketchen," which I understand to be the area where the food is prepared and not the late creator of the popular.Dennis the Menace comic strip. His food was "diff" and "cold," which, unless it was ice cream or gazpacho (which I do not believe they offer), is unacceptable. Actually, I'm not sure was is acceptable, as far as "diff" is concerned. He concludes by saying that he is paying for this kind of service and he would go there "agian" (sic).

I was saddened by Mr Google "M"s convoluted rant cum complaint about the Harbor Diner. I cannot speak for Mr. "M," (actually he can barely speak for himself), but I know that I will happily return to the Harbor Diner, if given the opportunity. 

Perhaps next summer. Perhaps next week.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*allegedly

get right with god

I'm going to start my own religion. Would you like to join and become a follower? My religion, for which I have not yet chosen a name, will teach love. Love for everyone, no matter how you look, how you think, what you wear, or who you love. Everyone will be treated equally. There will be no leaders. We will all help each other.

This religion will teach kindness and charity. Sure, other religions claim to teach that, but they don't. We will be polite and non-judgmental. We will never berate or belittle you for the choices you make, as long as they are not harmful or impede upon anyone else's choices. We will teach politeness and tolerance and humility. 

We will have no dietary laws or rules about what sort of garments you should wear in order to make your prayers more effective. Hell, we won't even have prayers, so you needn't worry! We won't have specific houses of worship, either. You can practice love and kindness everywhere, as you should anyway. Religions have rituals that make sense to the followers and appear goofy to everyone else. We won't have to worry about that. We'll have none, unless you want to hop on one leg or clap your hands. We won't mind or judge.

We won't have any reverence for any imaginary "higher being" that allegedly controls everything. If such a being existed, there would be no starvation or sickness or hatred. Offering prayer and sacrifice to this imaginary being obviously does nothing because all of that strife is still as prevalent as it has been for thousands of years. We are on our own and we have apparently been going about it all wrong. I suggest a worldwide movement of peace and love. Sure, other religions claim to preach the concept of love, but they do not. They teach love among their followers while mocking followers of other religions.

With the exception of natural disasters, every single problem in the world has a basis in religion — wars, hatred, bigotry, violence, animosity, racism. What happened to "Peace on Earth, Goodwill Toward Man?" Or is that only during Christmas? I sit here writing this on Yom Kippur, while, around the corner from me, there are synagogues stuffed with hypocrites who believe that fasting and chanting in Hebrew will allow them to atone for their sins. Sins they will go right back to committing after they've shoved a bagel in their maws at sundown.

So, whaddaya say? Wanna join me? What have you got to lose? Don't want to join me? That's okay, too.

See? It's working already.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's all in the game

When I was a kid, nothing beat staying home from school. A day off scheduled on the school calendar was one thing, but an unscheduled day off due to illness — real or otherwise — was the best. All it would take, on those rare days when I would wake up and something in my head or gut didn't feel quite right, would be a little bit of convincing (and maybe a pouty lip), and my mom would relent. She'd fix me some hot tea and dry, butterless toast and deliver it to me while I was propped up on the den sofa — still pajamaed and draped with several blankets. Usually, I was only able to milk this set-up one or two days out of the school year. Any more than a single day risked a non-essential trip to Dr. Barnes, our burly family practitioner who would invariably jab me with a javelin-sized needle no matter what I was brought in for. So, I made myself satisfied with one day off every so often  — and, boy!, did I make the most of it.

My dad left the house for work long before I would wake up for school. My mom would assist in the before-school routine of getting me breakfast and picking out appropriate clothes. She had a little business of driving neighborhood kids to kindergarten in the decidedly unsafe cargo area of her rickety old station wagon. During the course of the day, she was in and out of the house based on her carefully coordinated schedule to accommodate both morning and afternoon sessions of pre-school. On sick days, while my mom was out, I would scroll though the seven channels that our TV picked up (4 VHF and 3 UHF), carefully choosing my entertainment for the day, making sure I looked like I wasn't enjoying myself too much during those times when my mom popped in to check on me. My choices were important and I stuck with them, because these were the days long before remote controls and changing channels required vacating my sofa sanctuary. I avoided soap operas and the news. (On one "sick day" in early June 1968, I remember clicking the TV dial past a report that Robert Kennedy was shot in a hotel the previous night. I was seven and wasn't quite sure who Robert Kennedy was.) I would settle on cartoons (if there were any available on weekday mornings), but my favorite was game shows.

While my contemporaries were stuck behind a school desk listening to Miss McGlynn ramble on about multiplication tables, I was joyfully munching on toast, lounging on the sofa and excitedly watching Monty Hall announce that Jay Stewart was bringing a box down to the trading floor on Let's Make a Deal. My favorite, though, was The Price is Right.

Meet the new boss...

No one hosted a game show better than tanned and handsome Bob Barker. The dark-haired, toothy-grinned Barker, fresh off his long-running stint on Truth or Consequences, endeared himself to contestants and brought an air of decorum and class to an otherwise frenetic atmosphere. Baker became the game show host by which all other game show hosts were measured. Barker, especially as the seasons progressed and he got older, exhibited a sardonic side at times, berating contesting for making obviously boneheaded choices or not following simple instructions. I loved watching bewildered contestants price a can of peas at "five dollars, Bob," only to have Barker roll his eyes, fold his arms across his chest and verbally lash out with a scolding usually reserved for a kid who just smashed a baseball through your living room window. Barker hosted The Price is Right for 35 seasons before retiring and handing the reigns of the show over to comedian Drew Carey. Carey had an understandably shaky start and rightly so. His hosting has been subjected to relentless scrutiny and comparisons to the venerable Barker. However, after ten years, Carey has settled in and has clearly become a fan favorite. Carey has obligingly carried on Barker's campaign to control the pet population, but his on-air patter is peppered with numerous side references that are unleashed for his own amusement. These comments fly over oblivious contestants' heads as they seem to widen Carey's already impish grin.

... same as the old boss.

My love of television is certainly no secret. I especially love watching shows that were popular during my youth, perhaps reminding me of those glorious "sick days." This past year, Mrs. Pincus and I made the jump to 21st century technology and signed on for the X1 entertainment system offered by Comcast, our local cable provider. With this system, I am able to record programs (up to six shows at once, like that need will ever arise) and watch them whenever I feel like it. With uncomplicated ease, I can set up those recordings hours, days or even weeks in advance and the programs are stored in my personal library until I decide to delete them. Eliminating the need for a prehistoric VCR and those bulky, brick-like VHS tapes, my recordings are housed "in the cloud" — where ever that is.

So, taking full advantage of this mind-blowing technology, I record The Price is Right everyday. After dinner, my wife and I curl up on the den sofa in front of our spectacular 43" LG flat screen smart TV and watch Drew Carey, in full realistic color, interact with a new generation of idiots who still don't know the price of a can of peas.

And it's wonderful.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

food, glorious food

No one likes a good buffet more than I do. Actually, no one likes a bad buffet more than I do.

I love going to and eating at buffets. When I was a kid, my parents used to take my brother and me to a buffet, except back then, it was known by the exotic and exciting sounding smörgåsbord, a name that my label-giving, xenophobic father bastardized into "schmorgazboard." This place was a picky-eating child's dream. From the long, winding buffet, I could select only the items I liked — fried chicken, corn, french fries — and avoid the yucky stuff I was forced to eat at home, like green beans and broccoli. I was reminded of a time when my nephew (now 24, but just a child at the time) returned from the salad bar at Ruby Tuesday's with a giant plate sporting a compartmentalized portion of crispy rice noodles and dollop of chocolate pudding. See? Kids know what they want.

Breakfast buffets are always great, no matter how big or small. We used to make an annual event of Mothers' Day brunch at a lovely and bountiful buffet offered at a Sheraton hotel in downtown Philadelphia. An aunt, who obviously didn't get the concept of a buffet, asked a waitress — whose only function was to deliver and refill cups of coffee and removed spent plates — if she could get an omelet for her, as she didn't wish to wait in line. Waiting in line is part of the fun of a buffet! Who doesn't love to grab the last waffle from the serving tray, in full view of the hungry dude behind you, leaving him grumbling until they fill the tray up again  — which is usually in about three seconds.

Of course, I've been to my share of weird buffets, like the one at the Hibachi Grill and that al fresco set-up at a roadside motel in St. Augustine, Florida that Mrs. P stumbled upon on our honeymoon. It's one we still talk about over thirty years later.

More recently, Mrs. P and I have frequented the buffet at Harrah's Resort in Atlantic City more times that we probably should have. When my wife was riding high on the "comp train" at the seaside casino, we could drop by Harrah's buffet any time we liked. We would eat there several times a month. Despite the 90-plus minute drive, Mrs. Pincus would pick me up after work during the week and we shoot down the AC Expressway for a sumptuous — and more importantly free —  dinner. But, all good things come to an end and Harrah's cut her off for no good reason and I'll be damned if I was gonna pay for a meal that I had for free over a million times. So we steered clear of Harrah's until the good folks in their promotions department invited Mrs. P back into their fold. The free buffet offers weren't nearly as plentiful, but we took full advantage of the four per month that we got.

But that didn't seem to stop a group we saw at Caesar's buffet..

Last weekend, during a free weekend stay at Bally's Resort (a sister property of Harrah's), Mrs. P and I ate dinner at the newly-renovated Palace Court Buffet in Caesar's Resort on the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk. (Caesar's is also part of the Harrah's family). We hadn't been to the buffet at Caesar's for years, unimpressed by its small size and limited selection. In our almost decade-long absence, they expanded the seating area and nearly tripled the buffet size with stations featuring pizza, Asian and Mexican cuisine, seafood, fresh sushi and a large array of salads. Due to our self-imposed dietary limitations (I'm a vegetarian and my spouse observes the laws of kashrut, avoiding shellfish and non-kosher meat. You have the internet. You can read all about it, if you're interested.) Earlier in the day, we visited the buffet and asked the cashier at the front if we could take a quick look around to see if there was enough for us to eat. Of course, there would be. We perused the many offerings and, satisfied, decided to return for dinner. We left and thanked the cashier for her consideration, making sure she saw us leave. After all, we could have very easily grabbed a plate and helped ourselves and no one would be the wiser.

After a day on the beach, we showered, changed and headed to the Palace Court Buffet. We waited in the long line with all of the other anxious diners. Finally, we presented our vouchers and were guided to a table. We filled our plates and ate. As we sat at the table at the end of our meal, Mrs. P toying with the bottom part of a cupcake and me, downing my second cup of after dinner coffee, noticed a small commotion at the table just behind us. A waiter was having a heated conversation with a table full of twenty-something hipsters who were working diligently on plates full of crab legs. It seems the waiter noticed their table was lacking the receipt from the cashier that every other table displayed conspicuously in the napkin holder. 

"Um, did you folks pay?," the waiter questioned.

The diners stopped their eating and looked at him, silently. One fellow spoke up, while his companions remained speechless. "Pay? There was no one up front to pay.," he replied, hoping that his answer would be satisfactory enough to end this exchange.

The angered waiter pressed. "You have to pay first. Before you eat." He asked the spokesman to accompany him to the cashier. As they walked away, his friends remaining at the table began to snicker. 

Mrs. P and I decided we were through. We left a tip for our waiter who was attentive and brought us iced tea refills without our asking. We made our way out of the dining area and approached the "down" escalator. We were surprised to find the non-paying diners just ahead of us on the escalator, laughing and wiping their seafood-tainted hands on their pants.

I guess free buffet vouchers are still too much to pay for some people.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com