I have this recurring dream where I'm lying in bed, and my friend Tyrone calls. And he's all "I can dig more clams than you!" And I'm like "No wai!" And then I spend the rest of the dream looking for a place to park. I don't know where that dream came from. I don't even know anyone named Tyrone.
But if I did this is where I would take him. Because Black Bear Diner is as surreal as road trip dining gets.
The ironic pictures featuring little bears trying to do what humans do ("haha! Silly bear! Manual transmissions are for humans! One day you will become somebody's rug! Ha ha!). The suspenders. Reading your menu from an old Goodyear Gazette. The faint presence of Wilford Brimley in the air. Wilford Brimley is everywhere, and can take many forms.*
But alas, Tyrone is not real, and so therefore did not make a suitable dining companion. But Misty S is very much real (and very much my squeeze), so I brought her here instead.
Our initial disappointment at the absence of African-American leather daddies aside, we quite enjoyed ourselves.
She ordered the pot roast, and me the chicken fried steak. Both came with a side of mashed potatoes (you get your choice of two from a list of six or so) that came topped with gravy that matched the entree. This was done without prompting. I was so excited to see my meat and potatoes so perfectly accessorized that I nearly shat glitter.
BBD's claim to fame is giving you a lot of food. It says so like twenty times on their menu. And in reality it is a lot. So much that you can hear the strained whines and cries of other patrons trying to finish their garlic bread. Or was it Texas Toast? I don't think it counts as Texas Toast if it's only grilled on one side.
Why do I keep capitalizing Texas Toast?
And why is everyone staring at me? Is it because I'm not dry heaving my way through my entree?
Oh shit, is there glitter on my seat?
*My review of Trader Joe's. Oh snap, self-reference!