Upon arriving home from work today, I noticed that a note had been slipped under my door. Naturally, I figured it was a note from an adoring fan or secret admirer. After all, who wouldn't want to spend their time writing to a mediocre, very part-time sportswriter and "author" of a practically anonymous blog?* Alas, when I picked up the note to find out how great I am, I discovered it was nothing of the sort.
*Current tally of number of fan letters and secret admirer notes the author has received in his life: One. ... I can count a note from a possibly mute neighbor requesting that I turn down my television, right?
My note was actually a menu (printed on 8.5x11, standard white, 20# paper with a half fold, not on the heavier 60# stock with a fan or letter fold*) for something called The Polynesian Grill. Thus, instead of reading prose praising my firm handle on the English language (which I definitely don't have), I was treated with the knowledge that The Polynesian Grill's dish called Wildcat Mixed Noodles is actually "stir fried noodles & veggies mixed with pride."**
*Why, yes, I did spend a portion of my college years working a part-time job where a primary duty was making copies. How could you tell?
**I'm not sure what "pride" is referring to in this sense, but I don't know that I want it mixed in with my noodles and veggies.
While I am flattered that the advertisers of TPG* thought of me specifically (They certainly would not have slipped then under every door in my apartment complex. What a crazy idea...) when marketing their apparently new restaurant, I must question their market research. After all, many of the dishes on the menu sound as if they fall on the spicy end of the spectrum**, and I enjoy hot foods about as much as a hobo enjoys being jabbed in the eye with a toothpick. (Please, don't try that at home... err, wherever you might find a hobo, kids.)
*It's what the kids are calling The Polynesian Grill. (Editor's note: False.)
**At least that's what I gather through impeccable skills of perception. Others might not come to that conclusion about a side called a "Wildcat Spicy Roll," but I have put much thought and consideration into this conclusion.
As a curious individual, I have done much reading of the menu and I must admit that some of the dishes sound pretty good. Beyond that, I'm learning plenty. Upon my first glance, I discovered that "The Polynesian Grill gets its name from the word Polynesia..."
I'll pause a moment so you can let such mind-numbing knowledge really sink in.
Wow.
Beyond that, I've learned that Polynesians apparently learn to spell from the Dan Quayle teachers' manual, adding an 'e' on the end of 'potato.'
Though it has taught me plenty, perhaps the most interesting aspect of the TPG menu is the information it withholds. I'm well versed in the dishes available at TPG. I know there's a "kids" (not kids')* menu, which is somewhat terrifying. I can even tell you what specialty drinks are available at the TPG bar. (Want to drink something that sounds like a depressed islander? Order a Blue Hawaiian.) Alas, I cannot tell you where The Polynesian Grill is located. The actual address of the finest Polynesian dining experience I have ever received a floor-bound menu for is nowhere to be found on the ad.
*The Writings: We appreciate the apostrophe.
A sticker on my menu tells me that TPG is open Monday-Saturday, 11 a.m. to 2 p.m., and 5 to 8 p.m. It's also open on Sunday from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., and both dine-in and carry-out options are available for my meal. The physical location, though, that one must travel to in order to have these options remains a mystery. The address is nowhere on the sticker, either.
At the end of the day, it seems I have in my possession a menu for some sort of eatery that is so exclusive that they cannot even advertise the address. Perhaps the ad wizards at TPG knew I'd write about it and placed it strategically under my door in order to get some free advertising out to the bevy of The Writings' faithful readers.
... Once again, they really need some new researchers in their marketing department.
*Current tally of number of fan letters and secret admirer notes the author has received in his life: One. ... I can count a note from a possibly mute neighbor requesting that I turn down my television, right?
My note was actually a menu (printed on 8.5x11, standard white, 20# paper with a half fold, not on the heavier 60# stock with a fan or letter fold*) for something called The Polynesian Grill. Thus, instead of reading prose praising my firm handle on the English language (which I definitely don't have), I was treated with the knowledge that The Polynesian Grill's dish called Wildcat Mixed Noodles is actually "stir fried noodles & veggies mixed with pride."**
*Why, yes, I did spend a portion of my college years working a part-time job where a primary duty was making copies. How could you tell?
**I'm not sure what "pride" is referring to in this sense, but I don't know that I want it mixed in with my noodles and veggies.
While I am flattered that the advertisers of TPG* thought of me specifically (They certainly would not have slipped then under every door in my apartment complex. What a crazy idea...) when marketing their apparently new restaurant, I must question their market research. After all, many of the dishes on the menu sound as if they fall on the spicy end of the spectrum**, and I enjoy hot foods about as much as a hobo enjoys being jabbed in the eye with a toothpick. (Please, don't try that at home... err, wherever you might find a hobo, kids.)
*It's what the kids are calling The Polynesian Grill. (Editor's note: False.)
**At least that's what I gather through impeccable skills of perception. Others might not come to that conclusion about a side called a "Wildcat Spicy Roll," but I have put much thought and consideration into this conclusion.
As a curious individual, I have done much reading of the menu and I must admit that some of the dishes sound pretty good. Beyond that, I'm learning plenty. Upon my first glance, I discovered that "The Polynesian Grill gets its name from the word Polynesia..."
I'll pause a moment so you can let such mind-numbing knowledge really sink in.
Wow.
Beyond that, I've learned that Polynesians apparently learn to spell from the Dan Quayle teachers' manual, adding an 'e' on the end of 'potato.'
Though it has taught me plenty, perhaps the most interesting aspect of the TPG menu is the information it withholds. I'm well versed in the dishes available at TPG. I know there's a "kids" (not kids')* menu, which is somewhat terrifying. I can even tell you what specialty drinks are available at the TPG bar. (Want to drink something that sounds like a depressed islander? Order a Blue Hawaiian.) Alas, I cannot tell you where The Polynesian Grill is located. The actual address of the finest Polynesian dining experience I have ever received a floor-bound menu for is nowhere to be found on the ad.
*The Writings: We appreciate the apostrophe.
A sticker on my menu tells me that TPG is open Monday-Saturday, 11 a.m. to 2 p.m., and 5 to 8 p.m. It's also open on Sunday from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., and both dine-in and carry-out options are available for my meal. The physical location, though, that one must travel to in order to have these options remains a mystery. The address is nowhere on the sticker, either.
At the end of the day, it seems I have in my possession a menu for some sort of eatery that is so exclusive that they cannot even advertise the address. Perhaps the ad wizards at TPG knew I'd write about it and placed it strategically under my door in order to get some free advertising out to the bevy of The Writings' faithful readers.
... Once again, they really need some new researchers in their marketing department.
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