The sad decline of restaurant arithmetic

Following an evening of substitute golf with my T.O.U.R.[1] league at a picaresque course in pastoral though strip-mall-threatened Detroit exurbia, I join my buds at the premier hangout down the road.  This local indie establishment is clearly oriented toward the white, suburban Youth of ‘Merica who have recently joined the ranks of the drinking classes: an odd mixture of Paris Hiltons and Toby Keiths.

And us: an increasingly middle-aged—meaning my definition of middle-age keeps incrementing—group of provincial golfers.  The format is generally four to six of us grab a table, while two to four of the smokers, shot-drinkers, and barmaid banterers head toward the bar.  Conversation at either location quickly reaches the peaks of sophistication: Continue reading →