My Saturday night started off like usual with my tried and true routine of getting lit off as many concentrates as possible to get through my bartending shift at a local nightclub. There was the normal amount of malarkey that you’d expect to happen at a place that houses 75 rowdy drunks swaying to techno music while trying to find “the one,” but after closing down the bar that morning the real story of my terrible day finally began.
You see, I’m not going to sit here and tell you that cannabis doesn’t have some adverse effects on our brain functions because that would be a lie. I’ve seen people who I consider to be quite intelligent turn into absolute buffoons after puffing the magic dragon, and last Saturday was no exception. My co-worker must have taken too many trips to Mary’s Garden because his keys (and sanity) had somehow managed to escape his grasp as he looked at me in horror. It was already 3:30 a.m. when I suggested he try searching his house to find the rogue set of keys. When he arrived back at the bar about an hour later having struck out, we decided to completely search the entire cantina for any clues. After what seemed like hours, we gave up and decided to try and sleep away the rest of our unlucky night until help would arrive. Luckily, I had my Henry’s pre-rolls to help ease the pain in my lower back caused by the lack of beds inside the club.
I awoke around 9 a.m. to discover that the keys were, in fact, on the bar behind a towel. Normally, the would have angered me, but the relief I felt when I realized that we were free from our alcohol-filled prison kept me from losing my cool. As my Uber pulled into my driveway, I was ready to finally say goodnight to society and (hopefully) get some rest.
The funny thing about life is that it tends to kick you while you’re down, and as I was busy counting sheep, my phone was ready to deliver some more terrible news. Rent in Orange County for a guy who writes about cannabis can be a real bummer, but I manage to make ends meet by slinging drinks at a few different bars around town. Sunday morning happened to be a bit busier at one of my many gigs, so I put on my big boy pants, promised myself a nap in the not-so-distant future and discovered that my normal cannabis stash was nearly empty. I cursed the Weed Gods while making my way into yet another shift without the help of my favorite plant, or some much needed sleep.
After what seemed like an eternity, I was finally ready to go home and fall into a weed-induced coma from the comfort of my own bed, but first I needed to stop by a dispensary and stock up on enough live resin to get me a felony charge if I were caught in a flyover state. Unfortunately, my luck had continued to go from bad to worse when I discovered that the less than legal shop closest to my house had been shut down by Uncle Sam. I didn’t have enough energy or patience to make anymore trips, so I went home to feel sorry for myself and watch a romantic comedy probably starring Hugh Grant.
Once the movie was over and Mr. Grant had successfully coaxed his movie star girlfriend into a sexual encounter, I remembered two very important things. First, I hadn’t eaten a thing in probably 24 hours and secondly, I had a second, even more secret, stash of cannabis hidden in my kitchen. So I got baked, put on pants and decided to try out a place within walking distance to my house that I had passed by countless times without stopping in: Polly’s Pies.
Polly’s been serving up family style plates since 1968 and after a quick glance of the menu, it looks as if the secret to their success is mostly due to the fact that nobody cooks food at home anymore. I can’t tell you the last time I had mashed potatoes and gravy without being within earshot of my aunt’s racist ramblings, but my favorite foods all happens to be exclusively cooked at family gatherings, which means if I’m eating green beans then I’m probably counting down the minutes until I can get back to my own house which, quite frankly, is insulting to green beans because green beans are fantastic.
I’m not sure who Salisbury is, but he’s a liar. What I ordered wasn’t like any steak I’d ever had. The brown sauce covering my well done patty was covered in onions and tasted like my childhood. I had always considered anything I was forced to eat as a kid as being terrible but after demolishing my entree and sides, I’m convinced that I was just a little jerk. Someday, when I’m elected president, I will make Salisbury Saturday a national holiday every week.
By the time I finished my plate and scanned the dessert menu, I made up my mind that I would eat an entire pie afterwards because it would be funny and also delicious. When my server arrived with the check and I informed her of my plan to eat an entire rhubarb pie, she laughed and asked me if I wanted it to be warmed up. I told her that it wouldn’t be necessary and I waited for her to return with the conclusion to my edible journey.
She brought me back a slice.
It’s not polite to take photos of people when they make a mistake, and she honestly thought I was joking so I don’t have photographic evidence; you’ll just have to take my word for it.
When she left again to get me an entire pie, I sat there thinking about my terrible day, the missing keys, the lack of sleep and how much better everything got when I finally took a dab and got a little bit of food in me. As I bit into the middle of my pie, I felt proud to be an American, a hard worker, and most importantly, a complete stoner. Thank you Polly and as always …
Polly’s Pies is in Fullerton, (714) 525-7741; Huntington Beach, (714) 964-4424; Laguna Hills, (949) 380-8383; Los Alamitos, (562) 430-4541; Long Beach Atlantic, (562) 595-5651; Long Beach Los Coyotes, (562) 597-6076; Orange, (714) 637-3040; Santa Ana, (714) 547-9681; and Yorba Linda, (714) 572-9679. For these exact locations and hours as well as those for others throughout Southern California, visit pollyspies.com/locations/.
Jefferson Matthew VanBilliard is a leo that enjoys all things cannabis and is just trying his best. He let us know that although the desert will always be his home you can find him on Fourth St. in Santa Ana battle rapping teenagers or at the local high school where he coaches girls varsity volleyball without anyone’s permission.