So, C & C took a little road trip this weekend. Work took me up north and west in our fine state. I will summarize the preliminaries in order to get to the 9$ cheese curds.

* C & C met a pal at a German restaurant for dinner. Service and food and fellowship were all excellent!
(On the off chance the nice young server reads this blog, I do feel it is my duty to let her know that (1) we are very glad you moved the 5 strands of hair away from directly in front of your mouth and nose– the effort to not giggle as they poofed out during the reading of the specials was almost more than we could handle, (2) the plural of salmon is salmon, and (3) if your mobile dessert cart is bigger than the tables in your restaurant and almost as wide as the doorways–then it should probably have a speed limit and/or maybe fenders.)

*Unlike many places, when this hotel says it has two person whirlpool tubs in the room, they actually do mean a whirlpool tub that will fit two real people–at the same time.

* If one is traveling for work and has to get up in the morning, it is wise to listen to C when she says, “Should we set some kind of alarm?” and to not listen to C when he says, “Nah… we never sleep that late anyway.”

* Some towns are prettier than others. This town was not one of those towns.

* When driving around in a strange town on a Sunday it is worth noting the local customs. (1) Many restaurants are closed. (2) The bars and the adult book store are open. (3) The gas station we really wanted to stop at (The Tank and Tummy– we kid you not) is also closed.

* In a state better known for pine trees not and snow forts not sandcastles, there are an unusual number of “tropical paradise” themed eateries.

We ate lunch at one.

There were the required fake palm trees outside, fake parrots inside, and fake pictures of beaches and bue waters everywhere. (There were also old black and white photos, tuscan prints, and packer paraphenalia. The decor was… muddled.) We took our seats and opened the day-glo menu. Nothing tropical about the menu. Pretty standard American family restaurant fare. But there was nothing standard about the prices.

C: Eight dollars for an omelet? You have got to be kidding.
C: Yeah, look at the cheese curds. Nine dollars. Nine dollar cheese curds? They better be the best cheese curds I’ve ever had.

Now, we could have gotten up and left. But, we were hungry and we had just spent 20 minutes driving around looking for a restaurant that was open that didn’t have a neon beer sign in every window. The prices were high, but it wasn’t going to break us.
So we ordered.

One omelet for me. One burger for C. And an order of the $9 cheese curds.

C: So, I wonder why the prices are so high.
C: Yeah, it isn’t like these are unusual items.
C: Maybe the cost of living is higher here.
C: Higher than Chicago? Higher than Madtown?
C: I don’t know. Mabye it is so far off the major routes things are just harder to get.
(C has taken economics and understands supply and demand. He thinks he is smart.)
C: I don’t know, that doesn’t seem very likely.

The waitress returns with our food. It is at this point that the mystery is solved. There is another perfectly logical explanation for the increased cost of the food that we had neglected to consider.


The waitress’ hands shook from the weight of our three plates.
The order of cheese curds covered an entire dinner plate, with more piled on top.
The hamburger C ordered was as big as my hand.
And the omelet… OMG.. the omelet was over two hand-spans long and two inches thick.

We gasped.

The waitress rubbed her sore wrist and said, “Yeah, we get that a lot. Especially with the seven egg omelets.”

C: Seven egg omelet? I ordered a seven egg omelet? (What the hell was I thinking? That isn’t an omelet, that is a quiche.)
Waitress: Yup. All our omelets are seven egg omelets. Enjoy!

C & C had stumbled upon the Paradise Diner of Brobdingnag.
(We were glad we hadn’t said something about being hungry enough to eat a horse. We would have been crushed for sure.)

Neither of us could finish more than a third of our plates. We loaded the rest into containers and hired the locals to help us haul them out to the trunk of our car.

We expect to finish our left-overs sometime this month.

Moral of the Story: Paradise means different things to different people. In the North, apparently, it means portions for thrashers.