Mrs. Sadie Titlebaum Wishes You A Good Shabbos

MR. JOHNNY ROASTBEEF

It's been said that a good thing shouldn't be run into the ground. And That's why, after soaking it for all its worth, MR. JOHNNY ROASTBEEF is retiring.

To say that it's been anything but a great ride would be a lie. That's why I'm known as "Liar non par excellance au gratin'". To have been MR. JOHNNY ROASTBEEF for this past summer has been a hot potato at times. But other times it has been green beans ala beet sauce, Jack Paar's sick jar, peanuts butter with sticky buns and Adolph Meat Tenderizer love cake, love...well let me just say it was a joy being MR. JOHNNY ROASTBEEF this summer, all food aside.

It was neat that I didn't have to kill anyone (not that I would have anyway...except for the bad people, who I wouldn't kill, but rather would baste until tender).

My restaurant didn't really do that well (I dunno. We put pupiks and necks on the table even before you tied yourself to the buffet table). And what about our "EasyFat Chairs"? This I thought would really help us out with the hefty crowd, allowing them easy access to our pupik and neck buffet without having to go back and forth from the buffet to the table. Alas, it was not to be and we'll be closing down on September 2nd, 2009. Lunch buckets, hat boxes, tasty cakes, untasty cakes, pupiks and necks, lipsticks at the ready, hands dragging by the side of the road, lip sticks at the ready, pie chicken, and non-jewish beer couldn't have changed the outcome. There was nothing we could do about it, no matter how hard we tried.

Some thought that MR. JOHNNY ROASTBEEF was a gangster sort of persona, but nothing really could farther from the truth. Except maybe my turtle neck sweater I wore in the 5th grade. It covered my fat pretty good, but I still remember it as a fat coverer and it bothers me. But I've put that behind me now (along with my rear end...of my car that I owned in high school and now use for a swing in the back yard.

Yes, the run as MR. JOHNNY ROASTBEEF was a good one, and we did have some good times. Do you think I'm good looking? I mean, really. we'll never have the times we had as kids, and it will never really be MR. JOHNNY ROASTBEEF time again.

Not like it was.

So long kids. Please wait up for Uncle Joe.

MR. JOHNNY ROASTBEEF

Eating And Spitting

I had lunch at the local International House Of Pancakes today, and yet again, I did not see one even low level functionary of the littlest of countries. You would think (if you thought like me) that a truly "international" pancake house would have at least the King of Liechtenstein as a greeter or gladhander of some sort to reassure us that we were eating in a swanky place.No luck.

So I sat down and had my usual, the Chef salad and onion rings. I know, of course that the real chef doesn't really make ALL of the "Chef salads" but rather operates in a supervisory manner to insure that the "Chef salad" is served in a uniform and reliable fashion. Don't doubt that those IHOP officials are on top of things and they want you to have a fine dining experience while you plotz in their restaurant.There is a problem, however. I never order the pancakes when I eat at IHOP (I shouldn't say "never" "never", because I will order them when the waitress agrees to smother each pancake between the breasts of her décolletage. I ain't been too successful with that lately).

The reason I rarely order the pancakes is that I read that the pancake guy lives in a little shack under the griddle, and that he has refused (on principle, I'll bet) to pay his toilet tax or to make good on the bill for his pay toilet that he has in his apartment. Normally, when a man or woman refuses to pay the toilet fees incumbent upon us all, I turn my head and express my disgust away from the oncoming wind, but in this case, when the man directly responsible for cooking the pancakes at the IHOP is the miscreant, I defer from ordering what I would expect is their special. So I ate the salad. I spit one bite out to show my solidarity with those fighting the toilet tax and the onerousness of the pay toilet industry.