It Came From The Kitchen.

Grendel. The name conjures up all manner of image. For those proponents of ye olde english epic, there are now in your heads furry-eyed monsters that come to kill you in the deep dark of night. For those others, pub-goers all, squarely in your mind's line of sight is that favorite haunt of the young men & women of Harvard: Grendel's Den.

On Friday last, oh my brothers and only friends, I found myself at that watering hole of Ivy-League lore - wanting naught but a drink, and some meat to wash it down. And so I sat. I drank my Scotch. I ate my burger and pasta. And I did all this with the comfort of a productive-as-shit day behind me, and a day off ahead. 

The tiny grey visitor scuttled across the floor, behind my chair. What's this, I thought. It couldn't be what I assumed it was. A tiny verminous beast, perhaps the youngest cousin of the olde english monster of yesteryear?

My appetite was not-strangely gone.

Upon the bar-maiden's arrival (she came to remind me that she'd forgotten my latest dram), I commented to her that a strange and non-bipedal guest had visited the legs of my chair, likely in search of sustenance not found in the kitchen from whence it came. To this, the maiden replied:

"Umm. Yeah. A few people have told me that. I just don't know what I can do about it..."

And with that most unsuitable response, my most vaunted composure was terribly lost. Out, out, I cried in my head - the only outwardly visible sign of malcontent being the desire for a hastily acquired check, and a speedy retreat. 

Fuck, man. I really liked Grendel's.