By Pope Legba

It was Saturday night, and we felt the need for vittles. Not the storable food vittles I keep on hand at the Papal Desert Compound. We required the ideal foodstuff: fine red meat cooked by a trained professional. So Rosaic and I piled into the Popemobile and headed into the heart of Arizona restaurant country. Nestled in between the high rise offices and the local Target store lie our quarry - Beefeaters. Rosaic had been eyeing this central Phoenix steakery since the first time we passed it, and we agreed that it was time to dive in.

The first thing you notice as you walk in is the decor. Pieces of armor nailed up everywhere, big old man leather upholstered booths, and paintings of long dead white men nestled in gold gargoyle frames adorning the walls. The place dripped with class! A cheerful girl in a red blazer seated us, and soon a waiter (reminiscent of Scott Thompson from Kids in the Hall) came to take our drink order. Rosaic ordered her usual iced tea, and I asked what beers flowed from their taps. "We don't have any beer on tap," replied our friendly server. Red flags dancing before my eyes, I ordered a bottle of Bass ale.

The waiter soon returned with our beverages and a small plate of bread. My Bass was poured into a six ounce tumbler consisting of equal parts beer and foam, and the bread plate contained three pieces of mediocre bread served at room temperature. The accompanying butter consisted of foil-wrapped pats, as whipped butter would drive the prices up.

A few minutes later, our waiter returned to take our orders. Rosaic decided on the prime rib (twilight cut), and I went for the filet mignon. As we waited for our salads, we soaked up a bit of the ambiance. The key element was the piano player, a rather frail and elderly lady seated behind a white baby grand. She played suprisingly well, but took long breaks between songs. I assumed that she might wear out easily, but Rosaic thought that she might be dozing off between songs.

Soon our salads arrived. Standard house variety, with tasteful amounts of thousand island dressing and croutons, it left us with no complaints, but no thrills either. As we waited for the main course, we were treated to the sight of a staff member wheeling his bicycle out of the back of the restaurant, right through the dining area, and out to the street. This and the occasional song from Dottie the piano player were the only entertainment available during the long wait for our beef.

Eventually, the main course did arrive. The filet mignon was a medium sized cut of fine quality beef, topped with well-done onions, and a decent baked potato on the side. As I dug into the filet mignon, I was struck by the lack of adornment. A fine cut of beef, cooked to my specifications, but lacking flair and distinction. There was nothing to differentiate it, no personality, no special treatment to make me think "Goddamn! Beefeaters makes a fine filet mignon!" I've eaten steaks from New York to Los Angeles, and this one didn't even register on the Papal Beef Quality Index.

But my disappointment was nothing compared to Rosaic's. "Twilight Cut" turned out to be a rather small cut of prime rib, and the side of Yorkshire pudding consisted of a dinner roll perched atop a mound of instant mashed potatoes. This prime rib dinner was decidedly second rate. But on the bright side, the entertainment started to pick up as we ate. Waiters and members of the kitchen staff got into a heated discussion with the manager regarding work responsibilities and the general lack of enthusiasm shown by the cooks and bussers. Nothing spells class like hearing the staff spit out bitter diatribes peppered with words like "fucking" and "bitch" and "shitty". It really does help a patron's digestion! We also got to see a couple more workers wheel their bikes out past the tables of unsuspecting diners.

As the evening degenerated into a tawdry bitching session for the staff, Rosaic and I agreed that it was preferable to tip somewhat generously so as to avoid waiting for our change, and beat a hasty retreat to the nearest grocery store to pick up a frozen dessert for consumption at the compound. Beefeaters made us long for the generic chain steakhouses, where the booths are private and the staff argues behind closed doors.

by Rosaic d`Jesus

The Pope was looking sad Saturday, work putting demands on his time at all hours of the day and night with frequently frustrating conclusions , so I said "Pope, let's go get STEAK tonight". Like saying "Car ride" to a dog. The Papal erection was rubbed upon me and I knew my suggestion was good. There is a restaurant, Beefeaters, we've passed numerous times. And everyone of those times I've said we should go. Palm trees out front, Dottie and Suzy Q featured in the lounge, old men coming out looking satisfied, that just had to mean good meat. In one form or the other. "Beefeaters". That had to mean serious carnivore dining. Pope was so happy he even shaved on a Saturday night and wore his good loud shirt instead of the casual loud shirt. I felt like a dowager with my brown purse and black dress. "What will the fancy folk think?"

The first fancy folk we ran into were a couple just coming out the door arguing about who was too drunk to drive in loud tones you hear mostly if you watch "Cops" and a physical fight was underway for the keys as we went inside and dodged more fancy folk in sweat pants with toothpicks hanging out of their mouths. The place was nothing like what I had imagined on the inside! I was thinking tiki bar 60's retro and was assualted with "Ye Olde Poser Tavern for Gentry". Old oppressive English in the Sonoran Desert. Of course!

The second assult was either Dottie or Suzy Q at the piano. I haven't heard such piano playing since the chicken you pay a quarter to pecks out 'Old Susanna". Dottie (or Suzy Q) never played a song newer than 1936. I believe "thee Var" came and she was lost in time. She looked good though. Sparkly outfit and jewelry, lovely coiffure, and always a smile. When she was awake. I think she fell asleep til someobdy dropped her quarter in the jar for her to start pecking. We were lead to our table, a nice leather booth that back in it's day would have been sweet but now was just so much nostalgia smelling bad. There werent' that many people dining in which was odd since it was the night before Mother's Day and should have been as swamped as the other places. Of course, Phoenix is an unreasonably early town that closes at 9pm weekdays and 10pm weekend. We were there at 9pm so we were like vampires!

The service was like a "Kids in the Hall" sketch, not that anybody wasn't nice to us but that they were furiously bickering and at times shouting obsenities that we all could here. There was one waitress who must have been working there since Goldwater came in wearing an indian blanket and a smile and she was engaged in the argument but instead just grabbed her purse and left. And throughout the night wandered an old man in beat up clothes, shirt totally unbuttoned to give full feature to his undershirt, in an arm cast that was attatched to his belt so that it made his arm stick far out to his side. In his good arm he would carry things like ketchup, fork, napkin....back and forth all night. Mr Dottie?

The menu offered such (hear me chomping gum) High class items as "Beefeater on a Bun" and "Pastry and Flaming Desserts". It was at that moment that I knew a feast was not in store and the cloudy ice tea that tasted like shoe was the clincher. But I didnt' want to get grumbly and ruin Legba's time so I smiled and tried to get him to drop a few bucks in Dottie's cup and just say "show tunes". He didn't and we talked about his work, which I thought he was trying to get away from but it seemed it might be therapeutic so I thought about that Highlander guy on sci-fi channel and looked attentively into Lovely Legba's eyes.

It took a very long time in between the ordering and the getting of food that was just above "tolerable". The fancy house dressing for salad was runny thousand island with some booze whisked in and my "twilight" cut prime rib was a stingy, fat ladened portion. Yorkshire pudding was a burnt brown bread roll plopped into instant mashed potatos. It was insulting and we had every right to get up and leave without paying a dime. Harumph!

I was listening to Dottie play two bars of Mack the Knife before falling asleep when the first of many little mexican men started wheeling their bikes right into the dining room and out the front door. Other's who noticed that there was 30 minutes to go before closing time started taking off ties and unbuttoning shirts. At first glance it looked like they were getting ready to run for it at closing time but it soon turned out it was for the rumble that was about to erupt between gay, high strung waiters and tiny, I-don'gib-no'fuck busboys. This meal was turning into an expensive floor show and Pope and I held hands, laughing openly at another "only in Phoenix" moment as Dottie was carted away in dry ice and somebody was trying to get the wine stain out of mom's sleeve without pulling her frail body out of the chair. Or just pulling the arm right off. I heard an incensed "blahblahblbah WONT FUCKING DO IT" from the kitchen and watched as the staff all came together in a rage in a tiny alcove in front of the kitchen. It was finger pointing and indignant sniffing peppered with swearing that soon died out as more mexicans laughed at gay whiteys and grabbed their bikes and pedaled by us.

Nobody hit anybody and that was THE biggest disappointment of the night. Pope and I were ready to run too so he threw money on the table and we high-tailed it to the Abco and bought cake and coke. It wasn't the Meat eating frenzy we had set out for but we both agreed that a good time had been accomplished. And that's the most important thing. Thank you, Legba, for a lovely Evening! And I have a slab of sirloin I bought at Albertson's that I'll make up for you myself. I'm no Dottie but I'm sure I can find something to hum.