I was told I hadn’t lived until I tried the bread rolls at Texas Roadhouse.
The endless parking lots in front of the Target, Cinemark, and Lowe’s were void. The Starbucks nearby was closed. You were driving on the winding roads on the outskirts of a small town that could have been any small town. Around a bend there appeared a neon sign, “Texas Roadhouse”.
The parking lot was full.
The bright orange light and warm fragrance hit you hard coming from the dimly lit parking lot. The kitchen was partly visible from the waiting area by the server’s counter and food was coming out fast. Music and conversations played loud.
People seemed to know each other inside. There was a family in front of you talking with another family on their way out. A kid sat half asleep on the father’s shoulder. He was a small but gangly kid, and looked up every now and then at you. You smiled.
It took awhile but they found us a seat. Teak colored wood lined the walls. Overlaid on top across the restaurant were framed pictures, more neon signs and an assortment of taxidermied deer heads and antlers.
They gave you a booth.
The conversation was nice. You talked about life and work. For a moment you were talking about a forgotten pop star who had that song you liked, their name on the tip of your tongue, but never fully there. It was pleasant.
It took longer for the waitress to come back than it did to get a table. They were extra busy that night, she said. There was a fundraiser for a small child in the town with cancer.
It was another long wait for the food. Before the main course, though, there were bread rolls. You used a steak knife to rub cinnamon butter on the golden rolls.
You ate 5 of them.
The meal made you adjust your belt to the last notch. The soda you decided to have with it didn’t seem to help. You were going to sleep well that night.
I wonder if he remembers the bread rolls.