Cheers, My Fellow Austin Tryhards!
This is why we can't have nice things
A few months ago and several months into my pregnancy, I went out to celebrate my girlfriend’s birthday at one of the nicest restaurants in town. I put on makeup, zipped up my fabulous pink pleather boots. The five of us sat on the patio, enjoying the chill in the air and pricey charcuterie. Justine’s of Austin is the kind of place where there is a great deal of passion: passion for superb food, maybe; passion for self-promotion, without a doubt. I indulged in a glass of red wine because the best way to put up with surrounding snobbery is to submerge deeply into the warm bath of their fancies and blend right in. If you can’t beat them, remember: you are them.
As the birthday girl was sipping her after-dinner cocktail, a disturbance occurred. A man was making his way through a galley of potted plants and topsy-turvy heat lamps toward our corner of the patio. He stumbled through the pea gravel and nearly overturned several garden tchotchkes as he waded into the sea of tables. Many people stopped eating and looked up.
He paused in between the fence and telephone pole that was so close to our table I could land my steak knife in between his shoulder blades. He turned, made sly eye contact with me and my girlfriends, moved his hands to his crotch and pulled out his penis. He started to pee.
The patrons were aghast at what was happening. We were aghast at what was happening. Could there really be a man on the patio of Justine’s, with his dick out? I marched over in my obnoxious shoes to inform the hostess that a urinating man had queered the final course of our meal.
Moments later, the urinator was confronted by a man in charge, a man with a fedora, Mr. Justine himself. They exchanged words and gestures. We watched and waited for the situation to escalate, pinkies out.
He huffed and he puffed, but soon enough, Mr. Justine was at our table, on his knees, waving his quaint flags of shame and embarrassment. The pottyman would be staying and having another, it seemed. He was a friend, the owner told us in his French accent with a hand on his heart.
“I’m so sorry. He’s a writer and actor from L.A. and you know…” he covered his eyes and shook his head. I forgot about the urinator’s behavior, it was no longer all that shocking.
What I wanted to say to Mr. Justine was, Well, I’m a writer, could I pee on your patio? I put my hand on my big belly and filed my judgements away behind my furrowed brow. I was seven months pregnant, and putting a Frenchman in his place was not my business at this time.
But really, nor would it be worthwhile at any time. For this man, and so many of those finding success in our modern urban landscapes, are a bunch of no-good, tryhard pussies. And I would be fed up with enjoying their overpriced delicacies were there not a complex situation here. That being, I am a sucker. I really like their overpriced delicacies, especially when I’m wearing my fabulous pink pleather boots. I should have just called the police that night, but I was having a really nice time.
Austin is full of tryhard places: the kind of restaurant whose electricity runs on premeditation and whose décor rhymes with internet bullshit. Their brand is their bark and their bite is… does it matter? They’re branded, so, much like hogs or cattle, they taste only as good as whatever free range isn’t, can. These places are full of young people who are often hungover and always prefer to be impressed. The aesthetics are aesthetic and the menu has at least two compelling vegetables.
Here’s the thing: crispy brussel sprouts are not revolutionary, nor is beetroot ketchup, but pride is a deadly sin. If you’ve never been to Austin, you might have it in your mind that this place is a food town, a locale for foodies. If you have been to Austin and do believe it so, then you are our bankrolling fool. The accessibility of pretty, quality food conflates so easily with high quantities of hip, young people. It causes palatable befuddlement.
There is great food here, no doubt. Fantastic and modest eateries, too. Surely somewhere there’s a restaurant owner here who knows the correct response to someone pissing in public, but this is at least part of what was meant when ‘Keep Austin Weird’ was borne by politics: humility is a virtue.
I miss the ubiquity of places that are absolutely fine, of things that are reliably honest. I miss people hanging out instead of being seen. I believe they still call that place the Midwest? That’s where I’m originally from, but I’m too scared to go back. They might make fun of me and my big, pink boots. I’ll let you know how it is when I eventually move back there with my sad boxes of accrued crap from a life of trying all of the it girl restaurants. I even miss the shitty bars with shitty beer, full of people, having a great time, because everyone understands they’re just as shitty as everyone else in this world.
Tryhards are funny-looking, especially in Austin, but listen, if any town can shrug off a pisser it’s definitely this one. Let everyone relieve themselves in public, or not! Whatever, do indeed keep it weird! But all the Mr. Justine’s of Austin should at least drop the act, or maybe just the fedora.
To Mr. Justine and fabulous urban patrons everywhere, remember: you are a shithole, I am a shithole, we are all shitholes. Even if you were not the one to pee-pee on the patio.