Christopher Blackman

Bar & Grille


We rolled out on a quest for America’s
most bodacious bites–the most-loaded nachos,
the tangiest dippers, the most killer burger.
What we found was a beautiful country
in steep decline. In a gastropub upstate,
we dined with the silence of people
who’ve already said everything they have to say
to one another, everyone staring
into space past the strangers
at their tables: a former marine
placing his napkin on his plate like a shroud,
his adult son in the anime shirt twisting
his pewter rings around his thin fingers,
or the man the next table over who said
that’s it instead of let’s go as he signed the check
and rose to leave. The flatbread wasn’t much
to write home about, either–cheese congealed,
crust brittle and cold. You could tell
the place just barely survived the pandemic.
And speaking of barely hanging on:
the iceberg lettuce and salad bar spinach
weren’t the first plants to disappear around there–
heavy industry got up and left,
one after the next, dining and dashing
and leaving the town with the bill.
All in all, no bueno, but definitely not
the worst meal anyone’s been served.
For his impiety, Socrates was forced to drink wine
with hemlock. If that’s the going punishment
for impiety then waiter, I think we need
another round in this bar & grille.