The Purple Fiddle is a banana Runt®. Never heard that idiom before? It's because I just invented it to describe the fleeting thoughts of arson and suicide I had while eating here.
Allow me to explain.
I was referred by a very nice old hippie I had run into over in Davis, WV. She spoke very highly of the pleasant atmosphere and great food and mentioned that they even had live music. I know now that she is a totally insane liar, because not a single one of those things is actually true.
There is nobody to greet you when you walk in. Instead what you have is a poorly scrawled sign hanging over the register declaring "ORDER HERE". Which is somewhat ironic (or is it coincidental?!) seeing as how this place was steeping in roiling chaos.
The walls are bedecked with the same clink and clutter that gathers dust in every one of these country store type of restaurants: old farm equipment and signs, jars, jars, and bigger jars. I think I even saw some license plates (GURL NO WAY).
I approached the counter just as no one and no thing had instructed me to do and began the ceremonial staring into the wall with crossed arms dance that this place apparently requires before administering customer service. But that's nothing new. I've been to my fair share of out-of-the-way mountain towns. Their customs may SEEM strange and unnecessary, but, still, I must respect them.
The ritual paid off though, because a mere 10 minutes later one of the stuffy ogres that lives in the walls sauntered out to take my order (much to his dismay). He vented through flared nostrils and stared at me like I was wasting his time. The hill witch can stew her own cauldron for a minute, Moose. Calm down. It took a minute, but his work allergy subsided long enough for him to crudely carve "bison" and "dog" on a piece of paper. He then tore the paper he wrote on in half, handed me a piece and said "Take this to the grill." But in not so many syllables.
It was about this time that someone had crawled up on stage and slung some diabolical contraption around their neck. Now, I know what a guitar is. I've seen them played and heard the sounds they make. The contraption this creature obnoxiously smacked and strummed at was not a guitar. It was a mechanism left over from the apocalypse that had razed the last civilization that inhabited this planet. With each note, images of rending flesh and hissing machines of death raced about my mind. I'd elaborate on the caterwauling that accompanied this infernal concerto, but there's nothing I could tell you that Merriam-Webster didn't already perfectly convey when it said, "as cats in rutting time".
And I understand that this changling marionette's little episode could not possibly have been controlled by the establishment itself. I mean, I personally bore witness how flippantly it disobeyed the laws of physics. But had they employed some form of screening process then maybe The Harvester of Souls and Children wouldn't have gleaned its quota of innocent spirits and began molting into its final form.
I'm sure the entire second it took me to get out the screen door to the patio cost me years of life, but you (and all those who attend my bedside in my final hours) have to believe me when I say I tried. I really did.
Compared to the cacophony of hell anything seems nice, but the patio I would say was a genuinely pleasant looking place to sit and chow. The grill that Shrek was referring to sat out of the way in the back. Helming the furnace was the gruffest, drunkest, West Virginia-est man who ever lived. With one hand on the spatula and the other clenched around a freshly opened beer he snarled and peered through each flip of every burger. A lit cigarette hung loosely in his "lips". A sleeve of unchecked ash hung from that.
I don't know what my involvement in all of this is stopping these folks from doing, but they seem wholly convinced that I am wrenching them from the most important and crucial of tasks in order to satisfy my unnecessary desire to eat food and pay them for it. Grill-boss snatched the scrap from my outstretched hand and glossed over it. "Ten minutes".
Nearby was a freshly soiled table and set of chairs. I grabbed one and sat down. The wait didn't seem that long, but this was probably because I had the rare opportunity of watching two drunk people handily discussing minutiae. The Cook had one of his buddies with him. They slammed PBR's and goaded one another's masculinity. He threw some food on the condiment table when he was done and bellowed "DOG AND BURGER!".
"Is the dog mine?" I asked.
"Um, yeah." he returned, as condescending as possible.
At this point I just wanted to eat and leave. I grabbed the hot dog and promptly bit into it.
"Little hot, ain't it?" he sarcastically muttered.
Oh, I'll be fine. Eating is the easy part. read more