Review of Luby’s
It was a beautiful spring day, the kind that poets write about when they are feeling most gay, when I noticed the marquee outside of Luby’s read, “$3 Chicken Fried Stake”. I knew that meant it was time for me to get down on some of that stake, old person style, and teach a motherfucker how to spell.
I walked in, grabbed my green wrap of silver ware and school tray and asked the guy at the cole slaw tub if Luby was around.
“Huh?” he asked.
“Luby. Is Luby here? I need to talk to him… or her about the sign outside.”
It was then I realized that I didn’t know the gender of the name Luby. Even though I always wanted to meet Luby, even if for no other reason than to be able to say I met Luby, I suddenly felt a bit humiliated by this realization. With this I decided to let it go and move on with my life, down the chrome pipes, as they say, and into the wonderful experience that is “cafeteria style” dining.
I had $3 Chicken Fried Steak (CFS) w/ fried okra, macaroni and cheese, a wheat roll, a jalapeno, sweet tea and a slice of key lime pie.
The chicken fried steak was gigantic. I mean like as big as a clown’s shoe. I mean as big as a full grown penguin. I mean as big as the head of a very skinny midget wearing a winter hat big. Then someone, I don’t know who because I was dizzy by now, poured about a rubber boots worth of cream gravy over it and I’m not sure if I ever saw the actual steak again. I could only sense it’s presence.
The okra, though first recorded by a Spanish Moor in 1216, was crispy and fresh. The seeds sprung around the pallet like a pop rock might and settled heavily into my stomach with honest gratuity. I imagined them growing quietly in some small field in Mexico, where a young princess walks by daily, kissing each finger of delicious okra and maybe she sprinkles a little marijuana dust on them to make you want to keep eating more and more okra. So I mean… the okra was pretty damn good.
My waitress came up to me and her name tag read “Margaret” and in barely audible words she stated that my macaroni and cheese had been flown in from Italy that day. Well, just the macaroni part as she herself had hand made the cheese early that morning after milking several cows. I told Margaret it tasted like it and complimented her on her cheese making ability.
It was now time for my key lime pie and just looking at it gave me shortness of breath, but I took a bite and I guess this was about the time when I passed out from so much fucking goodness. Anyhow, I woke up about 2 hours later and no one said anything. I looked around and noticed a few others were sleeping or had maybe passed out from the delicious shit on their own plates.
This is when an older lady approached me and informed me that my waitress, Margaret, had passed away. She said it was from natural causes and she was in heaven now. She also said she would be my waitress for the remainder of my dining experience. It was then that I noticed my new waitress smelled like ketchup and beans. I immediately knew that I would never marry a woman who smelled like ketchup and beans and poured some of my sweet tea on the floor, onto the Luby’s indoor / ourdoor carpet in honor of my former waitress, and homie, Margaret.
Margaret had died honorably, in the break room of Luby’s, serving steak and making bank.
At this point I had to leave. I was overcome with sadness and fullness and promised everyone I saw on my way out that I would be back soon.