Brawls at the BBC

The British Beer Company's newest location in Framingham promises inevitable tension, regardless of what you order. The menu sets the tone for hostility as the loyalists seem to have contributed all things not American in the menu (Brie, Pasty, and Shepherd's Pie are all from the same place right?) and the Revolutionists have pushed for Hamburgers, Country Fried Steak and Spinach dip. With a menu that lacks any sense of cohesiveness, it's no wonder that I felt the overwhelming need to open the Ex-Files with my own culinary companion.

Maybe it was the sheer number of desperate young professionals, the extremely friendly valet, the security guards on patrol or just the bigger than me tv...but the night was primed for less than comfortable discussions. We're not big fighters though, not yet anyway, and not in the impulsive jealousy-driven way. Just in the "I'm always right and don't even try to prove me otherwise"-way. I was halfway through my pizza and he was halfway through the (fairly impressive) draft list when I felt compelled to "go there"--poor guy didn't know what hit him and neither did I, quite frankly. The next thing I knew we we both on edge, quietly burning holes in every person we encountered. I found a mortal enemy in the waitress that lingered just a little too long, and I'm pretty sure some of that unidentified "guy speak" was exchanged with our bartender. You know the look-and-nod that says: Do your job and don't even think about it...I know you're thinking about it...stop thinking about it.

But maybe you're looking for a fight, sometimes we need them--but know if you're brought to the BBC, you're someone's target and you're going to lose because you didn't see it coming. While your partner is making room for a pint of cider and blood to spill, you're still trying to figure out why the security guard is following you and how to avoid being trampled if there's a fire.

With the palpable tension, we wrapped things up, quietly deciding that mediocre and demographically confused chain-food was not worth any drama. Luckily we had the long and statey-littered trek down Route 9 to smooth things over, ultimately deciding that maybe we would return to the BBC. Maybe some day, when we become young professional yuppies and are too lazy to just stick an equally good Mrs. Buds Pot Pie in the oven.