The other night, my wife and I did what millions of married Americans do when they’re too tired to argue and too hungry to pretend they’re not: we went to a chain restaurant.

You know the kind. Parking lot packed but somehow still bleak. Host stand staffed by a teenager who looks like they were born exhausted. A menu thick enough to stop a small-caliber round. Comforting, predictable, aggressively fine.

We sat down, opened the menus, and immediately I felt that familiar dread settle in.

Because here’s my problem: I cannot bring myself to order a menu item with a goofy name.

I don’t mean “seasonal special” goofy. I mean the kind of name that sounds like it was invented during a marketing meeting where everyone was wearing distressed jeans and calling each other “rockstar.”

Things like The Kickin’ Cowboy Stack.
Or The Big Bad Bourbon Burger.
Or Uncle Larry’s Backyard Boom Boom Chicken.

I don’t know who Uncle Larry is, but I don’t trust him, and I don’t want his chicken.

My wife, meanwhile, had already decided. She’s good at this. She scans the menu, identifies something reasonable, and orders it like a functional adult. No internal debate. No existential spiral. Just, “I’ll have the grilled chicken sandwich.”

I, on the other hand, was stuck.

Because here’s the thing: half the menu items at these places are perfectly fine food trapped behind deeply embarrassing names. I’m sure the Firecracker Zinger Blaster Melt tastes exactly like a normal sandwich. But I can’t say those words out loud to another human being. I just can’t.

I imagine the server standing there with their little tablet, waiting patiently, while I clear my throat and say, “Yes, I’d like the… uh… Zinger.”

I’m a grown man with a mortgage. I shouldn’t have to whisper my lunch order.

There’s also the performance aspect. Ordering a goofy-named item requires commitment. You have to own it. You can’t hedge. You can’t say it ironically. The system doesn’t allow for that. Once you say “I’ll have the Roadhouse Ruckus Platter,” you’ve accepted who you are now.

That’s your identity for the next 25 minutes.

So I do what I always do. I look for the safest possible option. Something named plainly. Respectably. Something that sounds like it could have been ordered in 1987 without anyone winking at you.

“Cheeseburger.”
“Steak.”
“Grilled Chicken.”

No adjectives. No exclamation points. No personality.

The problem, of course, is that those items are often buried at the bottom of the menu like an apology. Meanwhile, the goofy stuff gets photos, arrows, stars, and a paragraph explaining how it’s “bold” and “craveable.”

Eventually the server came back. My wife ordered effortlessly. Then it was my turn.

I panicked.

I almost ordered something with a goofy name. I could feel it happening. The words were right there. My mouth was forming the shape.

At the last second, I bailed.

“I’ll just have the… uh… classic cheeseburger,” I said, like a man choosing safety over joy.

The server nodded. No judgment. They’ve seen this before.

When the food came, my burger was exactly what you’d expect. Fine. Dependable. Quietly disappointed in me. My wife’s food looked great. The table next to us got something sizzling and dramatic that arrived with a garnish I’m sure had a name.

Did I make the right choice? Probably. Did I feel like I missed out? A little.

But I slept fine that night knowing I didn’t have to tell another adult I ordered the Yeehaw BBQ Barnyard Bonanza.

Some lines you just don’t cross.

And for me, that’s one of them.