Midwest Diners

I've just returned from dinner at a chain restaurant. I swore that I was not going to eat at any chains while I was in Savannah. There are too many local restaurants to choose from. But, then a thunderstorm rolled in at 5PM and continued. I've eaten out on my own for 3 nights and I just didn't have the stamina to seek out a local place in the rain, so I went to a chain within two blocks of my hotel. I passed the chain that's also in my hometown, so at least I ate somewhere that I couldn't eat at when I'm home.

I had settled into a quiet corner of the place when a group of 8 obvious tourists took up two tables next to me. Judging by their nasal twangs, I can only guess that they're from the nation's heartland. Good, wholesome folks, fine upstanding citizens of Peoria or the like. Somewhere where talking through your nose is the norm.

I tried to ignore them. I really did. I read my book. I looked out the window. I finally just gave up. Seems they came to Savannah to drink. One of them unfurled a map of all of the city's bars and issued a challenge to the woman across the table: "I bet you can't go to all of these places." She made some comment about "24 shots" and drank more of her Miller Lite. Another quipped, "When in Savannah..." I cringed for them. They came all this way to drink Miller Lites in a chain restaurant. Oy.

I gathered that they were UPS drivers. One talked about delivering a package to Neil Armstrong. She said that she kept looking "for the guy on the bike." Another delivered a package to Peter Frampton, but didn't know who he was "because he doesn't have long hair any more." Double oy.

Then, the singing started. No, it wasn't karaoke night. They sang along with the background music. You know, the music that you're supposed to ignore. OK, I've been known to sing along with background music, but only after I've had a couple of drinks. Who knows, maybe they'd already started their tour of the city's bars - at least the ones that serve really watery beer.

This restaurant seemed to revel in playing the worst music ever recorded. Have any idea how hard it is to ignore Faith Hill's "The Way You Love Me" when Ms. Nasal Midwest is singing in your ear? No one, I repeat, no one should ever sing, "If I could grant you one wish, I'd wish you could see the way you kiss." Seriously? She has one wish and she wants him to see how he kisses? Just give him a mirror and wish for a yacht. Yeesh.

Thankfully, Singing Girl didn't know the words to any songs recorded before 1990. Unfortunately, her slightly older dinner companions felt the need to show how "hip" they were by singing all the songs she didn't know. After Faith Hill, I was serenaded with "Your Love is Lifting Me Higher" and "Saturday in the park, I think it was the 4th of July." I changed the lyrics to "Wednesday night in Savannah, I wish that you would crawl off and die."

Not surprisingly, the younger Singing Girl wasn't impressed with the "old folks" singing, so the fellow launched into the history of Chicago. Not the city, the band. Did you know that Peter "Horsefaced" Cetera didn't sing "Saturday in the Park"? Neither did I. Do you care? Neither do I.

Next up on the hit parade: "Say You, Say Me" by Lionel Richie. Neither of the singers belted out this tune, thus proving that it is the worst song in the history of bad music. Even nasally bland midwesterners won't sing it. As I waited for them to start singing, I realized in horror that I was humming along. "Say you, say me, say it together...that's the way it should be. Say you, say me, say it for always, naturally" I then decided that Lionel Richie might possibly be Satan.

I quickly finished my bland, overcooked steak and dry baked potato and beat a hasty retreat. As I left, one of them requested a bottle of water because her tap water "tasted funny." I almost turned around to say, "Look, you can sing really bad songs. You can travel for miles to eat at chain restaurants. But don't you dare diss southern water, you nasal talker!"