I'm Matt Champagne. Watch me type things at you.
CRUMBER LOVIN’
You know you’re in a fancy restaurant when—at the end of your meal—the waiter takes out a crumber.
Oh, crumber! You piece of persnickety privilege! You tool of tedious tending! Who made you? Your bright and lean form shines forth like a flare of frills, a pert flash of orderly swank. In the wrong light, a cop might think you were a weapon. But he’d be right! For you are a weapon of style, oh vanquisher of debris, oh marauder of morsels! Any waiter who dares brandish thee is truly a warrior. A warrior of cleanliness.
What if there were reports of suicide by cop where, instead of a gun, the police thought the guy was holding a crumber? “The suspect refused to comply and began brandishing what appeared to be a Thunder Group A17 table crumber from Culinary Depot. That was when we had to take him down.”
What if there was a guy who insisted on bringing his own crumber with him wherever he ate? Like the billiard aficionado who owns his own pool cue, the fancy foody who owns his own crumber is equally committed. Imagine a crumber convention with crumber enthusiasts rushing to and fro with leather cases full of the latest in crumbing paraphernalia, sharing their passions, their goals, their crumbers: the American Metalcraft 2787B Black Pocket Crumber, the Tablecraft 519 Stainless Steel Crumber, the Bitworth A-40 Crumber with gold finish and pocket clip. These guys know crumbing, man!
How long is the longest crumber? I’d like to see a waiter tend to one long banquet hall table that stretched to forty feet. At meal’s end, he clears the dishes, takes out his crumber, and then pulls on it like an antennae, extending it to four feet, the width of the table. Then, laying it flush, he begins to ever so carefully scooch the gleaming implement across the entire length of the dining surface, slowly bulldozing the remnants of many devoured pheasants, jostling the detritus of an evening well-eaten into huge piles of bread flakes and flyaway rice. The process is painstaking. The diners, never having seen a gadget of this length, ask the waiter: “What is that and what are you doing?” To which the waiter, momentarily halting his post-dinner Zamboning, looks at the shocked patrons and, with his eyes slightly drooped, says:
“This, ladies and gentlemen, is the Deluxe Forty-Foot Banquet Hall Crumber by Tidy Boys. And I…am crumbing this bitch.”
I remain
Champagne
