October 7, 2005

Pat's Backwater

ATLANTA, Oct. 2 -- The weekend was punctuated not because the USC football team apparently didn't take the field in Auburn for their 48-7 humiliation, but because we found out the real reason why Jenny and her fiance aren't able to take their honeymoon in November.

"We were going to Lake Tahoe," the brown-haired girl said through her freckled cheeks. "But I blew the engine in my Camaro, and they're really expensive." It took all the money the too-be newlyweds had set aside for their honeymoon.

Pat's Backwater restaurant set the stage for a ton of redneck bashing aside from Jenny and her sweet, Georgia drawl. After about four miles on a two-lane road heading off of the interstate highway we became a touch nervous. The front desk person at our hotel raved about the place, so we trusted her.

Unless one wanted his food fried (deserts, too, we think), the main course was served over a bed of rice cooked so long that it was a horrible pile of white mush ready to liquefy.

• Special editor's story break.

  Starbucks, 14th Street downtown. Black suit, gold tie, gold handkerchief, sunglasses hang out of his breast pocket. Black leather loafers. Wanna-be, 1940s, zuit suit Fedora just a little small for his head with some kind of gold and black cloth band pulled tight around the hat close to the brim. White shirtsleeves peek out from the ends of his jacket. Out of place clothing, more on the way home from Saturday night than out for a coffee on Sunday morning.

  He sits down facing the door, takes off his hat and places it on the table in front of him. The electronic tether comes out and he pushes his coffee cup around the table nervously with his left hand. He hasn't looked up yet.

  Sip, otherwise motionless. The world moves around the well-groomed young man. He finally picks his head up to nod hello at an attractive brunette. She walks and looks right past him oblivious to the friendly gesture. Still nothing as he stares straight down into his mobile phone. A glance toward the brunette as he scratches his forehead with his right index finger.

  The hat goes back on his head. His eyes go back to the device. The world continues without him.

Another theme from the evening at Pat's Backwater was our waiter-in-training. Decidedly not as attractive as Jenny, he and his tennis ball haircut came to chat when we had our food delivered. I'd say the vibe at the table was getting a little frustrated when this young man would ask us questions when we were attempting to shovel grub in our mouths. Manners didn't seem to matter for the boy. Tact? None. For the fourth time I slurped the remains of my sweet tea hidden between chunks of ice I asked for it.

"Can I get some more sweet tea, please?"

He took the cup and walked off, happy to help. Barely out of earshot came props from the rest of the table. We were finally able to eat.

- Rich