THE Hog’s Breath Cafe is not my natural habitat. Generally, I’m not big on theme restaurants after overdoing it at The Hard Rock Cafe back in the ’90s.
And somehow, I’d always assumed the hog in Hog’s Breath referred to bikers, possibly confusing it with that other HOG the Harley (Davidson) Owners Group.
But it turns out the “hog” is in fact pig-related. Had I been paying attention, I might have learned this from the restaurant chain’s logo which features an actual hog and no motorcycles at all.
I recently found myself in a small coastal town with a gaggle of kids who begged me to take them to the Hog’s Breath for dinner. As the only adult in our party of six, I was apprehensive, but game.
From the moment we walked in, I was pleasantly surprised. It was clean, great menu, well-priced. My cheeseburger was delicious. My glass of wine was hitting the spot. There were coloured pencils for the little kids. Curly fries. Life was good. Until …
“Is that what women do at the hairdresser’s?” asked one of the teenagers wryly, pointing to one of the TV screens playing music videos.
I spun around to be greeted with the sight of spread legs. Six pairs of them, all belonging to [the then] Pussycat Dolls who were inexplicably singing a song about “not needing a man” while doing a seated dance routine at the hairdresser’s.