I'm a New York Mets fan in a family with die-hard Texas Rangers fans. It makes for some awkward moments. The Mets are doing what they do -- falling behind with Big Apple style (heartbreaking style). The Rangers are doing what they do -- swatting aside the competition as anyone would pesky mosquitoes. It really chaps my hide. Nevertheless, I love baseball, especially watching it from within a stadium. So, when I was presented with two all-you-can-eat-seats tickets to an Angels-Rangers game, I snatched them from the hands, like the Angels would surely snatch victory from the jaws of the red-hot Rangers. Alas, that wouldn't be the case. The game was among most boring pitchers' duels I had ever seen. The Rangers' first-inning home run single was all it took for the team to gain the upper hand and end triumphant.
Like the Rangers' win over the LA club, the all-you-can-eat buffet at the wall-to-wall window restaurant with sticky tables was a minor success, not a blowout. There were three standout options were the popcorn, the hot dogs and the cheese-product nachos topping. The former were scooped out of a beer-bucket cooler and as addictive as stale movie popcorn. (I love stale movie popcorn.) Unfortunately, I didn't see a dispenser of fake butter. Instead of burgers -- how could there not be rubbery pre-frozen patties? -- fans munched on franks. They had a surprising snap for being boiled. But again there was disappointment associated with the pabulum. The condiment station didn't have deli mustard, only its day-glo yellow sibling. The cheese had a slight kick and didn't turn my gastrointestinal tract into a water-park flume. It was an improvement on the middle-of-nowhere goop served at many a rural Tex-Mex joint. (I'm thinking of you Griggs.)
The barbecue chicken breast with onions was the biggest loser. Tough and dry, not even the commercial vat sauce could rescue it from the mouth of Satan (read: the Texas Rangers). The buns almost made the "meat" bearable. They were hearty enough to withstand the disintegrating properties of condiments.
Thankfully, there was a comedic element to my outing. The chefs (if you can call them that) were wearing toques, as if they were culinary school instructors.
If only the home team had lost!
