Tuesdays
As far back as I can remember.... Us guys have been going out for wings on Tuesdays. Schmitty's Oar House, on the lake just outside of our old time stomping grounds of Fond du Lac Wisconsin. Rain or shine the only thing that kept us away was a bad schedule at work, or when one of us went off to college (of course there were always vacations). There's only one rule, “No Girls Allowed”. Like a tree house full of all you can eat chicken wings, beer, and hot sauce, our booth/table stands as a secret fort.
It didn't matter if you were a geek, jock, whether you had a hundred dollars in your wallet, or you walked in with a piggy bank and a hammer, when you were at Schmitty's on a Tuesdays with a basket of wings and a beer in front of you, you were part of the gang and may as well be a king.
The bar/restaurant is really nothing spectacular. A row of gambling machines complete with (for fun only) stickers line one wall. A big game hunter arcade game sits next to them. A large bar snakes along the other. Down the open walls, the seasons are visible through the windows as well as the lake. Booths line the outside of the eating area while tables make up the middle section. The only art is made of old 'Hamms' and 'Old Style' beer signs. A haze of thin smoke floats above the invisible thermocline flowing out from the bar stools.
Most of the time we're not carded, like Cheers everybody knows our names and what we want. We walk in sit down the waitress all of about twenty and never entirely ugly looking asks.
“Would anyone like anything other than wings?” She should ask.
We could all rename ourselves Norm while were there. Of course everyone has their choice of zest. Ranch, Hot, BBQ, whatever floats your boat. That's really all she has ask.
“What type of sauce?”
Aside from the usual bullshit conversations about work, annoying old girlfriends, the best type of sauce, the proper way to eat a wing, the babe of the day, and weekly life updates, there are few really worth while discussions. And that's exactly the way it's supposed to be.
/* It is just hitting me this is a far change from what going out for wings used to be remember. We've come a long way since hooters during senior year./*
It didn't matter if you were a geek, jock, whether you had a hundred dollars in your wallet, or you walked in with a piggy bank and a hammer, when you were at Schmitty's on a Tuesdays with a basket of wings and a beer in front of you, you were part of the gang and may as well be a king.
The bar/restaurant is really nothing spectacular. A row of gambling machines complete with (for fun only) stickers line one wall. A big game hunter arcade game sits next to them. A large bar snakes along the other. Down the open walls, the seasons are visible through the windows as well as the lake. Booths line the outside of the eating area while tables make up the middle section. The only art is made of old 'Hamms' and 'Old Style' beer signs. A haze of thin smoke floats above the invisible thermocline flowing out from the bar stools.
Most of the time we're not carded, like Cheers everybody knows our names and what we want. We walk in sit down the waitress all of about twenty and never entirely ugly looking asks.
“Would anyone like anything other than wings?” She should ask.
We could all rename ourselves Norm while were there. Of course everyone has their choice of zest. Ranch, Hot, BBQ, whatever floats your boat. That's really all she has ask.
“What type of sauce?”
Aside from the usual bullshit conversations about work, annoying old girlfriends, the best type of sauce, the proper way to eat a wing, the babe of the day, and weekly life updates, there are few really worth while discussions. And that's exactly the way it's supposed to be.
/* It is just hitting me this is a far change from what going out for wings used to be remember. We've come a long way since hooters during senior year./*
