This morning I woke up hungry. Most humans do, and those fortunate enough to have jobs often have a quick means of satisfying the need. Those humans also have refrigerators. Presently, I have half a refrigerator and have had to deal with it for the better part of this week. My landlord is being incredibly difficult about this, to the point that I am now asking that the cost for the amount of food he’s allowed to spoil be taken out of our rent. Since we are the only not crazy tenants here, perhaps he’ll listen. Or, I’ll be finding a new apartment where my basic requirements are met — working life appliances.
Anyway, Rick’s Iron Skillet. I’ve eaten here once before, but was violently ill afterwards. Not a very good sign, but that was over a year ago and I haven’t been to any irresponsible philosophers parties recently. So I figured I was safe. Rick’s is rustic little staple of the south. While large cities have greasy spoons and diners, I haven’t seen many as old-timey in their presentation as this, or as full of old people.
It is appropriately filled with skillets. But, rustic, can’t you tell? It is so rustic that’s attached to a pawn shop and a Mexican restaurant, but that’s just the encroaching 21st century.
Anyway, I dared eat here again. Largely because IHOP was too far to drive when I could barely see, and Waffle House is the ideal place to go if you want to get murdered. Also, Rick’s is fairly inexpensive.
But what did I order? Just a little dish known as the Burning Inferno Omelette (Omelet on their menu).