A few weekends ago, I visited a good friend of mine at Lehigh University. He lives off campus with his frat brothers...ten of them, and there was no mistake that ten guys lived in this particular house.But let’s not dwell on the house; my intent here is to comment on my experience dining with these guys.
After the Saturday night festivities, the house awoke around 1 p.m., groggy and starving. Sunday brunch, which seemed to be a regular event among the residents, today would be hosted by Alexandra’s Bistro in Bethlehem. The small establishment was quite the opposite of a bistro. In fact, it was a diner. Brunch all day, gyros on special - sounds like a standard Greek diner to me.
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They all ordered breakfast - eggs, pancakes, bacon, sausage, a hot dog? It was hard to say no to the dollar fifty hot dogs.
Anyway, each plate that arrived was pilled high with breakfast. Ketchup was been passed around, milkshakes were being downed, and amongst all the chaos of breakfast, each indulgent twenty-something frat boy used both his fork and his knife, and dared not touch his food with his fingers. It was absolutely remarkable. Because I ordered mozzarella sticks, I was the only one at the table using my hands!
Each boy politely moved his eggs around his plate with his silverware, using his knife to delicately push the eggs onto his fork. Toast was buttered in a royal fashion; no shoving the bread into the butter packets or dumping jelly into a glob on the toast.
Mouths were shut while chewing, but as soon as they opened some profane comment about the girls of last night escaped.
It seemed as though I was sitting in the middle of some epic paradox.
They looked like frat boys, they sounded like frat boys....they smelled like frat boys, but they ate like princes.
Go figure.
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