An actual excerpt from "What I did over my smmer vacation: the gross part"

(Background -- my 10-yr-old son and I were visiting my parents in an undisclosed locations. The names probably should have been changed to protest the extremely embarrassed.)

Everything was going nice and smoothly. Then dinner hit the fan.

We hade chosen Applebee’s because, well, it just seems that what people do when faced with so many decisions. They pick the easiest and safest, partially explaining the popularity of such mediocre restaurants like Applebee’s, Chili’s, TGI Fridays and the worst culinary offender of them all, Outback. I, for one, will never understand Outback’s appeal. It can’t be Foster’s, which somehow passes as beer in Australia (like we have something to brag about with Bud, Coors and Miller). I have been to an Outback only because of misguided friends who think a $50 gift card there is actually a good thing. However, when told there is a two-hour wait for a steak that is as overpriced as it is mediocre, even a gift card isn’t worth hanging with people stupid enough to take a coaster-shaped beeper who spend the wait talking about how nice it is when they’ve saved enough aluminum cans to be able to get out of the trailer park for a nice meal.

So we were at Applebee’s because Bryson’s grandparents, are, well, how do I put this – too old to worry about being discerning anymore. They smile when told the wait will “only” be 20 minutes. Hell, that ain’t nothing for the fine fare that is served at one of America’s finest dining establishments, heck no.

Once seated, each of us perused the 76-page menu (because when you don’t have quality, you better depend on quantity). Except for Bryson, who stuck to the kid’s menu. He is young enough to order off of it, too old to color it (guess that’s what they mean by being a ‘tweener).

A young, cheery woman approaches, her radiant smile almost screaming, “Sure, I’m making minimum wage right now, but I will make your brief stay here excruciatingly joyful if it kills me, because I’d do damn near anything for a 20 percent tip, so please don’t fill up on the appetizers.”

“Hey everyone and welcome to Applebee’s,” she said.

“What? We’re at Applebee’s? Holy fucking Christ, how in God’s name did that happen,” I wanted to say. But didn’t. One day I will. When Bryson is old enough to hear his dad curse for no good reason. Because he’s already heard me curse for good reason – like that time I was at stop sign and despite a lack of traffic, the three cars ahead of me were not moving, leading to a well-earned, “Will someone please fucking go at some point in time?”

“I know you probably haven’t had a chance to look at the menus,” she said, “but I can take your drink orders if you’d like.”

“Actually, I think we’re ready to order,” said my dad.

Yeah, the guy who comes here weekly and orders the same thing is ready to declare his food desires. Mom was ready as well. On those rare occasions when they do try a new restaurant, my dad looks up the menu on the Internet, and know what they are going to choose even before they leave.

It seemed everyone was ready to order. Dad asked for fish, mom chicken (most of which would go in a doggy bag that, yes, would go to there 18-year-old “You mean that dog ain’t dead yet?” Basset hound), Bryson mac and cheese, and me, well, the only page of the menu I was able to examine was alcohol, so I flipped to sandwiches and picked out the French dip. Mm mm mm, that’s good eating.

Food arrived within five minutes or so, since “profit margin” = “table turnaround” (and reflects directly on potential tips).

Bryson ate with the fury of a child who had not consumed solids for at least two hours. It took him longer to drench his dinner in ketchup than it did to eat. Dad had taken a few forkfuls of the halibut, while mom continued to talk about how delicious her chicken looked. She would not actually start eating it until well into the meal.

I dipped my tepid roast-beef sandwich into the slightly warm au just, which is French for “Whatever those drippings are at the bottom of the grease trap, add some water and heat it up.” Yeah, pretty much what I expected.

As I took my second bite, Bryson was done, my dad was surgically separating his green beans from his fish, and mom was searching for another adjective to describe her chicken (“This just looks so yummy.”)

I was dipping my sandwich when I heard a noise that, had I been in a hospital, I would have guessed someone else just died. It was a quick gag and silence, a breath so short it seemed to have been stolen away by Death.

I looked up and saw my dad’s eyes wide, cheeks bulging. He dropped is fork and quickly waved at his with his right hand as if to say, “Yes, I am choking to death but please don’t make a scene. This is, after all, Applebee’s.”

I could think of only one thing – “Please, if my dad is going to suffer a humiliating death at the hands of halibut, please let it be at a dining establishment that does not reek.”

Another gag and, still waving, he coughed up bits of fish swimming in a mixture of bile and saliva. Another cough, another upheaval of bile and saliva. Vomit, yet dainty vomit. His throat finally relented and allowed him air, my dad gulping it in in huge mouthfuls, coughing between each struggling inhalation.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, wrong pipe, that’s all,” dad croaked. “Nothing to worry about.”

And with that pronouncement, he picked up his fork and scraped the regurgitated halibut under the green beans and within 10 seconds, started eating again. With gusto. As if, it were possible, he would have ordered the halibut with a side of bile and partially chewed fish.

Once he seemed as if he would live to see another meal, I looked at Bryson, who had turned his head and was staring at the Applebee’s bar.

“Bud, don’t worry, he’s all right,” I said. “He’s not going to embarrass us by dying.”

He said nothing, but continued staring at the bar.

“Bryson, that’s rude,” I said. “He’s your grandfather. It was an accident. Now turn back to this table.”

He swiveled his head and looked at me. That’s when I knew.

This was only going to get worse.

His cheeks puffed up and his Adam’s apple bobbed. He bent over and there was a splashing noise of liquid on vinyl. Looking down, a thick, odorous liquid was splattered across the bench.

He convulsed again, and this time he struggled to hold it. Instinctively I grabbed a napkin and cupped it in my hands. He vomited into it like a pro. This time it was a viscous yellow liquid. Another gag and, napkin full, I balled it up, placed it on his empty place and grabbed my own dinner, holding the platter in front of him. A torrent of macaroni bits and fries spewed forth, engulfing the remains of my sandwich.

Later, after we had cleaned up and waited outside while dad paid the bill, I marveled at the talents of the stomach to separate and expel like ingredients. Ketchup, then cheese, than macaroni and fries. I wondered how we might be able to turn that into a circus act.

But only briefly.