My Dinner With Andre Lunch With Carl
Let it not be said that I have a problem with the English. I don’t. They’re a lovely people—clever, polite, and adorned with delightful accents that sound like they were born in velvet robes and Oxford libraries. I find those accents hilarious, not in a mocking way, just in the way one might chuckle at a puppy wearing a top hat. Which is to say, with affection and a dash of envy. So it should surprise no one that when my friend Carl—an actual Englishman, with all the associated traits and a passport to prove it—suggested lunch, I jumped at the chance.
Carl lives in Georgetown, which if you're not from Central Texas, which might as well be Oklahoma City as far as I'm concerned. Normally I wouldn’t make the drive unless I was being chased, but I happened to be in the area for a sleep study consultation thing because I snore like a freight train. The stars aligned. A Friday lunch with Carl it would be.
We had been discussing fish and chips, as one does when in the company of British royalty, and he mentioned a place called Grumpy George. Evidently, Grumpy George had been featured on television. I hadn’t seen the segment, but being an unapologetic Long John Silver’s ultra-fan, I thought, “Yes. That. That sounds like a Daniel kind of place.”
Now, today happened to be Good Friday. The world was off work. I was not. I’m off next week, in honor of Patriot’s Day, which is a thing in New England where people apparently take the day off to reflect on revolution and eat hot dogs. But I digress.
Georgetown, Texas, for the uninitiated, is one of those towns that feels charming until you realize there are more vehicles than people and the people are all parked in the vehicles waiting for other people to vacate parking spots. It’s very vehicle-forward. I eventually found a spot one block over, which is basically VIP parking in Texas terms, and strolled into town. Windy day. Not too hot. A rare combo.
Grumpy George’s website promised class. There was a reservation link. It gave off speakeasy vibes. I expected a crowd. I expected a wait. I walked in at 11:45 and found it emptier than a salad bar at a steakhouse. I chose a cozy two-top near the bar and texted Carl, who replied with a cheerful, “Need to poop first.”
I... see.
Maybe that’s just a British thing? A kind of gentleman’s honesty one doesn’t hear from American men until a third whiskey’s in. Who am I to judge? So I nodded to myself, ordered an Old Fashioned and a water (because hydration), and sipped my drink while pondering the cultural implications of pre-lunch bowel movements.
The drink? Sublime. I respect any restaurant that will serve you bourbon before noon without flinching.
Now, I’m dictating this entire post while driving down Interstate 130—Texas’s Autobahn—currently stuck behind an 18-wheeler crawling at 64 MPH with motivational slogans like “Need Help? Visit the Central Texas Food Bank.” I do need help. Mainly with patience.
Anyway.
The menu at Grumpy George was not extensive. Think Cheesecake Factory, then divide by a billion. You’ve got fish. You’ve got chips. There are bangers. There is mash. There is... sticky-toffee pudding. I ordered fried shrimp—what Carl lovingly calls “ocean insects”—and fish and chips for both of us. Because I am generous and also deeply impatient.
As I waited, a table of older ladies settled nearby. They began reminiscing about trips to England, how they didn’t really remember anything, but were absolutely certain they were now authorities on British cuisine. I half-listened. Mostly I stared at the door, willing Carl to arrive and free me from my own spiraling thoughts about peas, which, incidentally, arrived smashed and green and unwelcome.
When Carl did arrive, he looked relieved. I did not ask follow-up questions.
The conversation flowed like vinegar from a bottle—and speaking of vinegar, Carl, in a show of either cultural pride or gastro-anarchy, stuck his entire finger into the bottle before applying it to his plate. There are rules, Carl. Rules. Still, I watched in horror and admiration as he seasoned his meal like a man possessed.
The fish itself? Imagine if a cod had been fired from a cannon and wrapped in fried breading mid-air. A glorious log. A torpedo of fried joy. The kind of thing that could double as a baton or a regrettable prank. But you know what? It was delicious. The chips were fat. The peas were hidden behind the drink menu and remained untouched. We were, all things considered, living our best lives.
Carl and I spoke of many things: world politics, artificial intelligence, the awkwardness of colon health at 45. We both use ChatGPT in our work—Carl wanted me to note (and I quote) "I do not use it to generate 100% of the content I give my clients." Noted, Carl. Meanwhile, I use it shamelessly to create things like this post. Hi. You’re soaking in it.
Eventually, the check came with a QR code—a blessing of the post-COVID age. We paid. We lingered. We were two writers, too old to pretend we weren’t enjoying the escape from real life, too aware that work was waiting on the other side of dessert.
Which brings us to Galaxy Bakery.
I didn’t want to go. I’m trying not to eat sugar. But Carl, ever the gentleman, had promised gluten-free cupcakes to his lady. So I went for moral support. Rookie mistake. Do you know how many cookies are on display at Galaxy Bakery? Too many. I began salivating and had to bite the inside of my cheek just to maintain composure.
Carl bought a scone. Pronunciation varies by imperial history.
He asked for the cupcakes. They weren’t ready. But the very kind employee offered to frost two fresh ones in the back if he could wait a minute. And wait he did. Because British men don’t say no to kindness, even when it’s sugary and American.
I caved. I bought a small box of small cupcakes. For my family. Allegedly.
Outside, we lingered again. It was that kind of day—the kind where conversation runs too long and the goodbye is too slow and you both pretend it’s not because you’re getting older and don’t see friends nearly as often anymore.
As Shakespeare said, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” Which, coincidentally, is also what my doctor said during my first prostate exam.
I returned to my car. I drove home on 130. I dictated this entire thing like a man performing for a packed theater, my throat dry, my stomach rumbling, my heart full.
And I will never forget my dinner with Andre.
I mean, my lunch with Carl.
