My son and his early-20-something pals are not...brace yourselves...gourmands.
It's not as if he turns down dinner at The Palm.
And yet as content to head out of an evening on his red and black Honda CBR 1000 RR, pick up dinner at Chipotle, Ledo's Pizza, even, on occasion, at a Wendy's window, he has, as of this night
DRAWN. THE. LINE.
At Taco Bell.
Why? I ask.
Imagine, then, my concern, when he says, simply,
in that stern, flat voice of Youth's hard-won wisdom:
Do. Not. Pursue. This.
We're in drive-thru, Brian's car, Brian says to the guy, Four Tacos, please.
And my brave son's face clouds then swiftly turns sour.
Brian asks for four tacos, the guy shakes his head:
"Sorry, man. Meat hose clogged."