I almost choked to death once on a stringy clam fragment at Howard Johnson's. Well, maybe that's a little exaggerated, but it sure felt that way to me, and possibly to the clam as well.
My family would often go to the orange-roofed restaurant for leisurely weekend dinners, filled with mid-50's-style American cuisine and supposedly good coffee.
I can't remember what the adults ate there, but Brian and I always got the same dishes every time we went, ordered straight from the 12-and-under menu. Brian was hip on "Plymouth Rocky", which was basically a mini Thanksgiving dinner made with processed turkey-food and MSG-laced gravy.
"Super Sailor" was my choice, although I am not sure why. It was a plate of stringy, tough, and rubbery clam strips, deep-fried and doused in tartar sauce. I wouldn't get near those things today if they were free and I was starving.
One fine day my family was at HJ's and I was chewing on a few dozen of the gummy things and when I swallowed one of them grabbed hold of my throat on the way down and tried to climb back up or kill me trying.
I leapt from the table, almost knocking Brian's turkey to the floor, ran around in tight circles in a complete and total wild-ass panic, and my short life passed before my eyes. Just as I was about to run towards the front door of the place and into the street, the offending clam fragment gave up and shot across the room, bouncing a few times on the tacky carpet for effect.
I looked around and saw that most of the people were staring at me, frozen in mid-bite, mouths agape.
After I composed myself, I sat down and ate the rest of my rubbery clam strips.
