If I were to open my own pub, I’d be famous instantly. The fat nannies would faint like antebellum plantation debutantes – cue the southern-belle sotto-voce drawl: “Oh, daddy, I believe I’m getting the vapors” – upon reading my lunch menu:
From Mulligan’s in Georgia: The Hamdog [a hot dog wrapped in a beef patty, all deep fried, then slapped on a bun, covered in chili and cheese, and topped with a fried egg].
From McGuire’s in Florida: The Liverwurst Sandwich, an entire pound of braunschweiger with raw onions, rye bread, and mustard.
From Denny’s Pub in Pennsylvania: The 15-lb cheeseburger (I’ll give it to you for free if you can eat it without leaving the table; 2-hour time limit).
For the more traditional half-pound, 3/4-pound, and one-pound burgers, my available toppings would include cheese, bacon, liverwurst, duck liver pate, caviar, fried eggs, pastrami, salami, pepperoni, pork barbecue, roast duck, sushi, sashimi, oysters, extra salt, and anything else anyone wants to order made from animals that walk, gallop, swim, slither, fly, or whatever it is that crabs do.
Doctors recommend exercise. Merely lifting my plate-wrecking sandwiches to your mouth will qualify as exercise.
For the dinner menu: Family-style entire roast beasts; 7-layer meat casseroles; bundt-pan-molded ground beef, pork, and veal, seasoned Italian style, covered in Parmesan cheese; deep-fried meatballs the size of your fist; steaks the size of your thigh. My waiters won’t have trays, they’ll have wheeled carts, perhaps motorized. My refrigerators and freezers will have to be the size of motor homes.