You know, a bitch likes to look cute or whatever when I step out, but I’m not exactly a fashion girl. (That’s no shade to those who fit the label.) However, while I only tend to shout “Louis-Prada-Gucci, Louis-Prada-Gucci” when I’m singing along to Karlie Redd, I am very familiar with Marc Jacobs; although he occasionally makes very questionable moves, he is my kind of thot overall. He’s been very public about his sexuality through the years, and I’ve always found that admirable.
One of his decisions, though, that I find dubious: proposing to his boyfriend and now fiancé, fancy candlemaker Char Defrancesco, at a Chipotle.
I’ve come to learn as an adult that white people love flash mobs, and unlike the current administration, I actually value cultural diversity. Sing Prince all you want, happy white people! (I wish people, however, would go for more of Prince’s deep cuts. “Wonderful Ass” might’ve worked for the occasion.) Having said that, like fellow columnist Carrie Bradshaw, I couldn’t help but wonder whether salmonella was around while Marc Jacobs was romantically proposing a contractual union with his wax-on-wax-on-wax boo thang.
I don’t want to be sued or anything, but whenever I think of Chipotle these days, I immediately reflect on that whole contamination crisisin which people all over the country were keeled over in pain because they wanted a lil’ swine-filled burrito or extra guac with their chicken tacos. I used to love me some Chipotle, but I’ve so spooked to go there ever since it happened (and kept happening). Personally, I couldn’t get down on bended knee for a place that allegedly triggers so many folks’ bowels, but perhaps in this gesture of love, Marc Jacobs is trying to make Chipotle great again.
Even so, though we differ on the specific chain, I very much like the idea of asking someone to marry me at a chain restaurant. I’m hella single and have no chance of getting hitched anytime soon, but a dude can pretend, can’t he?
Yes. The answer is yes.
As most of you know, Popeyes is the elusive chanteuse of the fried chicken chains. I may not be able to stomach spokesperson Deidrie Henry and her fake ass accent in those Popeyes commercials that air on the hour every hour, but who can deny the splendor that is Popeyes chicken? I have engaged in a longstanding tryst with the five-piece spicy strips combo with fries and mashed potatoes with extra honey and jelly for my biscuit. So it only makes sense for me to potentially ask the man I plan to spend the rest of my life with while ordering a meal that’s probably provided me as muchif not more happinessthan him.
Of course, some of you may be wondering would I propose at one the Popeye’s chains with bulletproof glass? Obviously, I would because that probably has the best chicken if they haven’t run out of chicken. Moreover, if a partner is willing to go to you to a hood Popeye’s, you’ve found a real one.
Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen is a magical place that serves fried alligator, gumbo, and crawfisheven Beyoncé is a fan. I see myself proposing marriage while drinking a Three Wheel Motion. After he says yes (one can hope!), I’ll slide in the chorus to “Lady Marmalade,” as it’s the only Creole I can make out sober. I’m sorry, fam, but it’s your fault for not teaching me, TBH.
Before I address Chili’san American institutionlet me shout out Bennigan’s. Their Monte Cristo sandwich is legendary, and I am particularly thankful for Dennis, a serve who used to flirt with me when I was in high school but still in denial. I should have smashed.
When it comes to Chili’s, though, I tend to attract Jesus freaks. So while ordering some baby back ribs, I can quote the Bible verse: “And the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man.” And then I will add:“That shit ain’t got nothing to do with our gay asses, but be the sauce to my baby back ribs fo’eva, por favor?”
To the haters out there: That’s still cooler than a flash mob singing Prince’s “Kiss” by that alleged watery queso at Chipotle.
For no other reason than I really want to try those nacho fries, y’all.
After you profess undying love, I can’t think of anything better than to follow up that with an order of curly fries.
Confession: I actually can’t remember ever eating at Waffle House. Stop booing and hissing at me, especially you other southerners. I’m used to Denny’s and IHOP.
That said, Denny’s has to still rinse some of its workers and their racism out with soap, and I’m mad at my local IHOP by me for changing their hours so I can’t go there either. That leaves me with Waffle House, which is the perfect place to propose to your person after you go to the club, realize you’re too old for this shit, and say, “Yo, marry me so I never have to go back there.” Romance.
Note: This plan is contingent on the fact that Waffle House execs cut it out with the sex tape scandals.
I know what you’re thinking: “What the hell is Buc-ee’s, you country bumpkin?” It’s a very lovely convenience store with select locations around Texas and Alabama. “So it’s a gas station?” Yes, Virginia, but it’s the nicest gas station you’ve ever seen in your life. Most of them are huge; they have clean bathrooms, all of the snacks, and amazing lighting. They also serve lots and lots of food, which is how I am able to sneak this one on the list.
Look, if you’re on a road trip and you want to propose to bae as if you’re on a 1990s sitcom, this is the place to do it. You’re welcome.
Disclaimer: I’m aware this list has probably made it all the more difficult for me to ever get married. That’s fine. I can’t do it ‘til I pay more down on these student loans anyway. By the way, congratulations, Marc and Char.
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