Monday, July 07, 2008

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.

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