The Ranch
He wasn’t quite
a restauranteur
and yet in light
of Ballard’s lure
he chose to open up a space
and join the brutal foodie race.
A rusted crane, a chain or two
a fresh-milled log and not a clue
of what a waiter has to do
This was the recipe he chose
or stumbled on, one might suppose
“A patio! That’s what’ll draw ‘em
and then they’ll drink, so what’s the problem?”
The Vespa Club, the Bike Saloon
the Yuppies and their puppies too
They came in hordes, in droves in packs
craving alcohol and snacks.
Alas! Unlucky folk were they
for finally, they rued the day
they chose this place to come and play.
The kitchen wasn’t quite a mess
but the chef, he tends to stress.
Shouting, angry, “86!
There’s no more food! We have to fix
my dishwasher’s attitude,
the stove, the oven, and my mood”
Outside he can oft be found
a smoke in hand, the bitter sound
of seagulls squawking all around.
The barmen always did their best
but Fridays put them to the test
the empty kegs, the broken cups
the drunk who’s anger does erupt
A line that’s stretched right out the door
they just quite frankly could not pour
fast enough to quell the roar.
The trick to getting service was
You couldn’t! Hah! and that’s because
the hostess stand was hard to find
tucked in behind a shrub with signs
which pointed every other way
a labyrinth, a cursed maze--
certain, it’s said, wandered for days
And when they finally stumbled in
the hostess, she just scratched her chin.
“I have a waitress, but no tables!
In any case, I am not able
to guarantee you will get food
this hour! Please, I know it’s rude
but can’t you just wait one more sec”
she cried, and sprinted to the deck
out the gates, away she went
without so much as dropping hint
a case of sheer abandonment.
A summer job, a brief affair
Lovely weather, but who cares
Seattle’s jumped the shark they say
I’m not so sure, but anyway
I know just where not to go
When all I want is a taco...