Projectile vomit and raunchtastic fun
by Ashley Martin
My love for Boston Pizza has been on its way downhill ever since they changed their perfect “Italian pizza Bread” to “Bandera bread.” I tell you this not because my story has anything to do with that particular food, but simply to clarify the fact that I didn’t really want to go there in the first place. I can’t admit to being dragged along, but when the majority rules three to one, you don’t really have a choice.
I went to the original Boston Pizza (original as far as Regina locations go) a few weeks ago. The restaurant itself hasn’t changed in years, save for the new menu, and maybe some new staff, which is good because it’s nice to have dependability in a hang-out sometimes. It seems to have changed though…it’s not the atmosphere. I know, because it’s still fun to go there. Maybe it’s the fact that, in spite of my apparent state of denial and North-ender pride, the North end really is sort of raunchy. I’ve been trying to deny it for years. When people crack jokes about the mullets and the Trans-Ams, I’d like to think it’s not true. When I see acts of petty vandalism and senseless violence, I try to tell myself that it happens everywhere, not just in the North end. Maybe people are right, though…
On this particular Friday night, BP’s was booming…the parking lot especially, where numerous adolescent vindicators were waiting to kick some guy’s undeserving ass. What a welcome. First of all, why would you do it in a parking lot? Why bring your issues to a restaurant? It’s so stupidly raunchy. And so, I ask: Is there any other location at which this would occur? Doubtful.
After being seated, my friend proceeded to order her non-Italian pizza bread. And so, we waited, while observing the people pacing the property, attempting to talk some sense into the parking-lot idlers.
Not two minutes after our food had arrived, one of the drunks from the table next to us rose and stumbled his way to the door. He’d been chugging fishbowls for the half-hour we’d been there, and I guess it was bound to happen. His hands formed a kind of dam over his mouth, which kept some of the chunky green vomit from spewing everywhere… but it didn’t help much. He did manage not to puke on us though, which was fortunate… I guess.
This was, by far, the worst restaurant experience I’ve ever had, even worse than the time in France when the horse meat had hair in it. It sucks that so many raunchtastic people must deprecate the good reputation that the north Albert BP’s has established over the years. And so I conclude: no wonder no one wants to come to the north end.