I told the people I was with in Forth Worth that I wanted to skip the “nice place” routine and go somewhere authentic for a steak.  And we did.  It was located on a street with no less than two grimy storefronts offering piercings and tattoos; people apparently hate waiting in lines around here.  When we walked in, a midget swirled around on his bar stool, as though he was an automaton in a Disney ride, and said “Come on in and sit down!” I’ve always thought that you can tell the best places to eat because they greet you with a midget.

Inside the room was dark and narrow, and filled with fierce looking tough guys and even fiercer looking mothers with their kids.  The waitress asked us what we wanted to drink.  I recited dutifully “I WOULD LIKE A SHINER BOCK,” which I was told was the local beer.  But saying this marked me as an outsider (y’know, as opposed to my hair and clothes) because you’re just supposed to say “I’d like a Shiner.” (My companions assured me that this wasn’t a surefire way to get punched in the eye.)

The steak was just a touch overdone but heavy and good, and the beer came in large, frosted glasses big enough to put my foot into.  It was delicious, but I’m glad we were able to eat in peace that night.  When one of my associates joked to the waitress that we’d like to see the wine list, she smirked, “No wine list honey, but aside from that anything goes in here.” I looked around at all the animal heads mounted on the wall and the rest of the steakhouse’s clientele and decided that I’d rather eat than get into a bar fight--even though I was pretty sure that I could take the midget.