- The Southern Buffet of the Arroyo Wedding on Week 40: Saluting, Swinging, and Santa Fe, Baby.
- Lisa on Sorry Mom, You Suck at Cooking
- Rachamn Benhava on Brocato’s and Join Chickens, Like Your Aunt Nina Probably Had
- admin on Week 47: No Brunch: Just Some Vows, Goat Cheese Balls, and Neil Diamond.
- admin on Get your Happy Ending at The Wharf
Week 32: Pach’s Place, Pronounced Pa-ches, No Rappers Here.
August 5, 2011
Ok, maybe you’ve noticed, maybe you haven’t…. But after, thirty-one straight weeks of brunch, we actually skipped eating last Sunday. It was an all-liquid Sunday Funday for John-Paul’s Birthday Extravaganza. He turned 28 and only John-Paul and his boyfriend Sean think that turning 28 is a big deal. I, like other adults in the world, stopped celebrating and arranging birthday adventures at the age of 13. Most people just wait for milestones like “21” or “80.” I didn’t buy him a present. Being his friend and putting up with his gay antics is my everyday present.
We surprised John-Paul with a group trip to Adventure Island, the wonderfully overpriced, drug infested, water world located in Tampa, Florida. If you are looking for a soaking wet degenerate, go to Adventure Island. Adults in life vests, recirculated piss pools, and mediocre security that permits you to sneak your own booze into the park…They’ve got it all. Great place.
It was a fun day but I hope we didn’t let him down. Part of me thinks he was expecting more. Before arriving at the water park, we were all waiting outside of a convenience store for everyone to finish packing up their road sodas. A state cop approached us on his way into the store. John-Paul immediately got excited and screamed “WOOHOOO, YOU ALL BOUGHT ME A STRIPPER!” Fortunately the cop ignored his incongruity, but John-Paul looked slightly disappointed upon realizing it was not a naked law enforcement fraud. Now that I think about it—that was a ridiculous thought. Do you know your friends at all JP? We would never purchase an overweight stripper of non-white decent. Get a grip. Adventure Island was much more entertaining anyway.
So, Sunday has come once again and Ryan and I are back to business: brunch. We’re on our way to Pach’s Place on Bay to Bay Boulevard because we haven’t been this wonderful establishment in almost a year. As I enter Pach’s, memories flood my brain…. flood my brain like nasty recirculated sewage water, definitely not beautiful blue tides. I think back on who I used to be and it’s hard to imagine that today I’m sitting here, respectably dining with a boyfriend and a leg free of probation electronics. Joking. That is not actually a staple of my past, although it should have been.
Pach’s Place was our go-to Sunday brunch joint in college. There were 6 of us Holly Hangovers that used to go together, until one week when we made too many Hellen Keller jokes in public and offended our friend Christine. We then became a pack of 5. We were never sober and we were rarely dressed appropriately. More often than not we’d be wearing our clothes from the night before or even worse, pajamas. We’d always have to make a slight detour to pick up my roommate on the way. She tended to go missing at night. We’d find her waiting on a curb somewhere, beautiful as ever, and ready for coffee. She was a gem.
The ultimate fail of Pach’s Place came my senior year of college. I had been partying all weekend (all year, really) and my parents were in town and wanted to take me to brunch. The waitress sat us at a table in a high-traffic area near the door and I took the outside seat near the aisle, letting my parents hug the wall. While sitting there, minding my own hangover and trying to have an adult conversation with my parents, a woman came darting through the front door with her baby thrown over her shoulder. I felt something splash and start to slightly drip down my forehead. My mother’s face didn’t need to provide any explanation. The tiny human had puked directly on my head. At breakfast.
Anyway, not even projectile vomit throughout my hair could stop me from loving Pach’s Place. They are one of the most fair-priced establishments in South Tampa and their greasy diner atmosphere sure hits home. They even have a waitress who resembles Dolly Parton and she’s here today. I usually get their massive omelets but I’ll mix it up. For $4.85 there’s a fabulous combo of 2 eggs, 2 sausage patties, toast and grits. DONE! Ryan ordered a fabulous combo as well but his included country fried steak with sausage gravy, home fries, a biscuit, 2 eggs over medium and a side of smoked chicken/apple sausage, What the f is smoked chicken apple sausage!?
It is at this point I would like to review the food but I am too distracted by the man sitting across from us with his hand up the leg of his shorts, scratching his balls. I wonder if he is aware the tables have no clothes and I’m getting a peek at the mouse in the cage. He’s wearing a Snow White shirt that says “Don’t Worry, Be Grumpy,” and let’s be honest dude, the only thing worse than an adult in a Disney t-shirt, is an adult who engages in public scrotum scratching. I’m watching you, you swine.
Speaking of swine, my sausage patties were frigan amazing, but I can’t say the same for Ryan’s “chicken apple sausage.” Although the flavor was great, I couldn’t stand wondering whether each crunchy bite was a chunk of apple or a chunk of cartilage. The grits were fantastic as well. I took my scrambled eggs and sausage and used the toast to make my own breakfast sandwiches like a true food monster. Ryan’s country fried steak and gravy was slightly orgasmic and so were his home fries. You never let us down Pach’s. I’m glad we finally got around to visiting you once again. I purposely forgot to order the potato pancakes because I’m doing this thing called “watching my weight”… so I’ll be back!