No cheese at all

70 years ago today, Nazi Germany surrendered to the allies effectively ending Wednesday Night World War II (in Europe).  The day was given a name.  "Victory in Europe Day."  But because people were every bit as lazy then as they are now, It was shortened to "V.E. Day."

My uncle was 3 days old on V.E. Day. His name is Victor.  His middle initial is 'E.'  Yeah, he was named for the end of World War II in Europe.

Had he been born later that year in say, August, he probably would have been named "Kaboom!" after V.J. Day.

I don't know if he had a temporary name before he was 3 days old.  I don't know what he'd have been named if Nazi Germany had won.  Maybe Vicklgruber?

What I do know is this.  We celebrated uncle Vic's 70th birthday last Monday at Petrow's restaurant.

Petrow's opened up in Omaha to celebrate the beginning of the Korean War.

Petrow's is a good place to eat if you're old and your tongue doesn't work so well anymore.

It used to be a small place where you went to get ice cream or a sandwich or something.

Now it's a monstrosity that's always crowded, so you'd think it would be awesome to eat there.

The food I ate was pretty awful.  I ordered one of the specials.  It was called something like bacon cheddar pork tenderloin sandwich with your choice of fries or onion rings.

I just need to stop right here and apologize.  This whole thing.  From the history lesson, to what you're about to read (or quit reading) is yet another post about how much better my new job is than my last one was.

I should probably just go for it.  Blast away with the truth about how horrible my experience was at the other place.  Get it over with.  I just can't seem to find the courage to put that kind of horror story to print though.  So it comes out in hints and pieces. Hey - it's  a process.  I guess I'm just using this as therapy - while realizing that it is public and that prudence is most likely my best play in this situation.

While discussing my role at the new place with my manager, I am remembering what it is like to work at a sane, professional place.

The last place was so bizarre.  If you asked for help or direction, you were told that you were a senior level person and you should just know what you're supposed to do.

We all knew that this was total bullshit and that the manager was only making excuses for his complete incompetence.  But there was nowhere to go with it because his boss was behind him 100 percent.  It was impossible.

The side effect of enduring this behavior for so many years is that now I'm a bit paranoid.  The insane treatment is what I've come to accept as normal.

I have explained to my new boss that I'm reading into things she says too much and to be patient while I learn to take her words at face value.

She just laughs.  It's the best medicine.  It really is.

So I ordered mine with the onion rings. My brother-in-law Dave also ordered the special with the onion rings.

When the food came out, there were 2 onion rings on my plate.  Dave's plate had 2 onion rings on it too. But his onion rings were on top of a pile of french fries.

Then the waiter "Tyler" realized he had made a mistake.  He said to Dave, "Oh you wanted the onion rings, didn't you"

"Yes," Dave said.

"Um," I said.

Tyler looked at me with an innocent little question in his eyes.

"I also ordered onion rings,"  I said.

"Yes that comes with 2 onion rings."

"Or a pile of fries?" I asked.

"And two onion rings," corrected Tyler.

"I'm confused,"  I confessed.

Tyler stared at me, unsure of what was confusing.

"The special comes with fries or rings.  The fries includes 2 rings.  If you just order the rings, you don't get the fries."

"That's the stupidest thing I have ever heard,"  I said.  "Does everybody who orders rings understand that?  Because this is the only place in the world where what you just said is true."

At this point I knew I was completely correct but it didn't matter.  There's simply no way to argue with a waiter without looking like a dick.  I also realized that Tyler was in an abusive relationship with the cooks.  He thought this onion ring insanity was completely normal.

Finally he said, "Would you like an order of onion rings in addition to the 2 that come with your sandwich?"

"Would that be like two more rings?" I asked.

This next part is true: Tyler said, "Yeah, probably."  He was crying out for help.  I am now kicking myself for not seeing it.  All I could see was two onion rings on my plate.  Selfish.

"No. I'll just take the pile of fries with the onion rings on top then."

After Tyler went away to fetch me a pile of fries, my mother, bless her dear heart, shouted from the other end of the table, "Fred - would you like the rest of my onion rings?"

Mom spent years in a certain kind of relationship, too.

When she offered the rings to me, my thought had a British accent. I was thinking, "That's what I'm on about."

"No mom.  I don't want your rings.  I want my rings."

"Just take them.  They gave me way too many."

"Just rub it in, mom."

Then my brother Steve whispered in my ear, "What an enabler."

He was joking of course.  As was I with the whole refusal of my mom's onion rings.  I mean, no way in hell was I going to eat them and let Petrow's win.  But I was still joking.

There was only one possible solution.  Steve ate mom's "extra" rings.

We're a really deep 12 step family.

In the end, my tenderloin was too dry.  The fries were too greasy.  The rings were too few.  The food was too suck.

Petrow's is stupid and when all of their customers die of old age in 30 minutes or so, Petrows' will be no more.  So sad.

The only good thing is that Tyler will then be forced to take a job at another restaurant. For him, it will be just like my job change (Glorious).  Especially if he gets a job at Mama's Pizza or something.  That's how you pile on some onion rings.

Good on ya, Tyler.