“You’re kidding, right?”
“What? No. I really want to go.”
“Okay, but you can’t tell anyone. I mean it.”
I have been to Hard Rock Cafés twice. Once in Madrid when I was 16, and once when my brother was 16 and he came to visit me in DC. It seems to be about the right age to truly appreciate the phenomenon. But I had dragged Ryan out in the rain dress shopping, and dinner was his request.
Confusingly, at first.
I take great pride in living here and not feeling the need to make it like the US. It’s not, and dragging all that “I wish restaurants weren’t closed between 2:00 and 7:00, and I miss Target,” over here misses, well the target. The point. And so I don’t. I don’t go to restaurants with translated menus or franchises from home — except the Subway at the PX has avocados and you can’t get a ripe one to save your soul here. Exceptions are always made for avocados.
And I’d always wondered about the Americans who felt the need to go to a Hard Rock when my God — you’re in Italy. I think the food is a thing here.
But Ryan wanted to go, and I’m snobby, but not unfairly so.
“Because it’s the only place I can get a real hamburger and it tastes like home.”
Oh. It’s a fair point. I’ve been here a year and a half, he’s been here seven. (Nine? He says he’s been saying seven for a few years.) He’s been here long enough he’s never heard of Crate and Barrel. And then I went and snobbied all over his treat.
And you know what? Watching concert videos while someone else makes you a veggie burger*? Not half unenjoyable. And the side of home kind of hit the spot.
Don’t tell anyone.
*Not pictured. Pictured is the most American plate I’ve seen in a while.