Lonestar Steak House, back in the day, probably 20 years ago, used to bring customers big bowls of peanuts, which you ate, and then threw the shells on the ground. As a young teenager, the novelty of that alone won Lonestar a slot in my favorite restaurants list. I was disappointed when, years later I went for dinner as an adult and found the practice abandoned.
But yesterday Kate and I hung out with her Uncle Don while he did a bar crawl through Parkville. I was happy to discover that the third bar on the circuit, Racers, one of Kate's favorites, has peanut bowls. But I found that the actual chucking of the shells wasn't the part I enjoyed anymore. Of course the eating of was high on the list, but almost more than that was the visceral sensation of crushing the shells underfoot.
They make a very satisfying crunch when you step on them. I can't explain it. It's a combination of the tactile crunch feel and the pitch of the sound they make. It goes right to the pleasure center of your brain and noodles it around nicely.
Of course I'm not advocating peanut shells all over our house. The clean-up required would kill any buzz the crushing created. But I'm more than happy to go to Racers with Kate every so often and let the friendly staff there handle the sweeping.
Now that smoking is illegal in bars and restaurants, maybe more establishments will bring back the practice of scattering potential kindling all over the floor. Here's to hoping.
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