Coffee House Chronicles: The Right Reverend’s Blessed Feast

The HB & I got our party on last night!

Dateline: Saturday Morning (Recovery Mode)

If you weren’t at the clubhouse last night, safely tucked under the jurisdiction of the Right Reverend’s birthday blessing, I deep-down pity your soul. It was a Friday night for the books. The company was elite, the drama was subtle, and entry to the buffet line required strategy.

First of all, the guest list was a masterclass in "You Can’t Make This Up."

Mr & Mrs McRib and the Right Reverend Doctor & his First Lady.

Out of nowhere, Mr. and Mrs. McRib made the trek all the way from the LBC. We were thrilled to see them, mostly because we weren't sure if they were back for a limited time only. Then, Aretha & Steve graced us, sacrificing the balmy, pristine golf courses of Palm Desert to bring some royalty to the room.

But hold onto your hats, because things hit a whole new level of global security. Mr. and Mrs. W.C. Obama made a grand entrance. And when I say entrance, I mean a full-blown entourage and a flashing Secret Service motorcade that probably had the clubhouse neighbors checking their window blinds. The VIP energy was off the charts.

Of course, the usual suspects anchored the venue. Lynn and Brian—giving pure Captain and Tennille energy—technically wore the host hats since we were occupying their clubhouse. And of course, we had Yoko Uno and her husband, The Professor.

The WC Obama's made an appearance.

Now, let’s talk about the absolute absurdity of this menu. It wasn’t a dinner; it was a culinary revival. We are talking:

• Seafood jambalaya (blessed)

• Fried oysters (anointed)

• Shrimp and grits (sanctified)

• A whole, medieval-fair-sized turkey leg

• Turkey spaghetti

It was so ridiculous that the First Lady pulled from a higher power. She wasn’t asking; she was issuing commandments. Everybody had to pack a container to go. I felt like I was walking out of a five-star joint with a doggy bag, minus the bill. And to top it all off? The nectar of the gods was flowing. They had cold Pepsi on deck, so you already know your boy was completely set.

Where was the Commander?

...and then there's always the evil mastermind behind the plot.

Mr & Mrs. Hose Jockey and of course there was Big Bri, Little Bry.

Naturally, a night this perfect has to have a little mystery. Everybody was there... except for maybe one highly notable missing person.

I’m not going to name names. I’ll let you guess who decided to sit this one out. But if you look closely at the seating chart, my personal theological theory is that The Professor absolutely planned it that way. Not sayin’, just sayin’!

The Right Reverend got another year older, the Secret Service cleared the perimeter, the tupperware is full, and the tea is still hot. 

Until the next chronicles! You know what to do: Drink ‘em if ya got ‘em!

#coffeehousechronicles