Bum Steer Seer

BumSteerClearSeer.com

Would you be surprised to learn that –besides my many obvious talents and skills, I also possess a certain ‘sixth sense’?
Yep, I’m a psychic.
That’s ‘ic’, not ‘o’.
Or are you surprised that every one you know doesn’t claim psychic abilities?
It certainly does seem that psychic power is on the rise.
Downtown Plymouth is awash in psychic tours.
The local cable access channel offers regular shows on the spiritual side of town: you know, the two or three blocks from Cherry Street south, to Savery Avenue.
My spiritual talents are however, limited: or perhaps I should say focused, in one particular area.
I can’t predict the future.
I can’t talk to the dead.
But when I go out to eat I know, long before I order, that the meal I am going to get is going to be a big disappointment.
Call me a ‘spiritual waiter’.

“Hello, my name is Frank, and I am going to be your spiritual server tonight. Especially bad this evening is the Papi Lopez Shrimp: a pathetic chorus line of previously frozen, miniature Chilean shrimp that have been bathed in cheap tequila before being steamed into submission and then dunked into an indeterminate amount of spice.”

It never fails: as soon as I get within ten yards of one of Plymouth’s plethora of post-modernist shoebox chain restaurants I begin receiving visions, accompanied by disturbing aromas, culminating in a painful throbbing emanating from my wallet.
It happened again, last Friday night, when I foolishly accompanied a group of friends to one of the newest of the town’s poor excuses for a night out: The Blue Elvis.
The décor said ‘fifties nostalgia’, but the menu said ‘the Over-priced Eighties’.
I was with friends though, so I tried to shut my inner voice down with a 32 ounce glass of Heffenreffer Lager Especiale: I may be a psychic, but that doesn’t mean I’m no fun.
So I grinned and swallowed, though I knew what was coming: a ten dollar Big Mac with all the fries you can eat.
And it’s not just these new chains that are haunted by bad food.
Some of the town’s older, more established restaurants have to overcome not only their own frightening menus, but the ghosts of thousands of bad meals that came before them.
It’s not always their fault: almost every downtown restaurant today occupies a building that dozens of restaurants have used over the centuries. So what you are often served is not just the result of the present-day cook’s incompetence, but the residue of particularly horrendous meals cooked centuries before.
That is probably the case at Maya Mayo’s – the town’s favorite Italian restaurant.
Most town residents will swear by Maya Mayo’s food, but I can’t walk by their front door without being assailed by the vision of a giant plate of pasta that was left in the pot for days: each noodle bloated to the width of an octopus’ tentacle.
Is there anything more frightening than waterlogged pasta?
Then there’s the sad story of the Crustacean Shack.
Years ago the building where the ‘Crust’ - as locals refer to it, now sits, was the dockside berth of the Augosta family’s two lobster boats: the Claw and the Tentacle.
The two boats were family owned, and captained by the family’s two oldest boys – Giuseppe and Guido. The boys were always fighting about the business, threatening to go their separate ways.
One day, after a particularly vicious argument between the two captains, as the Claw set out to sea Guido cried out, cursing his brother, saying he would never sell another lobster in Plymouth.
Giuseppe and the crew of The Claw disappeared that day, and for the rest of the year the lobster catch went down and down, the prices up and up. Many lobstermen lost their boats to the bank that season, and the Augosta family sold out to a developer with plans for a big seafood restaurant.
And that explains why, when you order a lobster roll at ‘The Crust’ today, it often arrives at your table with almost no trace of lobster at all: it’s spooky!

Yes, I have the power, but it’s a burden too: every weekend I wrestle with the All-American urge to go out to eat, knowing, in advance, just how disappointed I am going to feel in the end.
I don’t even get to enjoy the illusion, or share in the innocent excitement that everyone feels before they decide what to order.
My only solace is in the pre-meal gratuities I receive from grateful diners who consult me – by phone or on the web, before heading out with their own families for that obligatory weekend restaurant meal.
The usual rate is 5%, and whether you deduct that from the tip you normally give to your actual waiter, or add it to the total cost of your meal, if I help you avoid a piece of scary sushi, or advise you to stay clear of a bum steer steak (or is that ‘steer clear of a bum steer’?), I know you will find it was money well spent.
Visit me at BumSteerClearSeer.com