The St. Clair Broiler was the spot I took my high school flame.
We’d share a malted milk while playing at the mating game.
A reuben or a rachel, or a country club on rye,
Would guarantee a kiss or two when no one was nearby.
And after I was married we’d go out on Friday nights
To the St. Clair Broiler to conduct our weekly fights.
For she would have the walleye, while I said the tuna melt
Was better for our budget and would also keep her svelte.
Now we are grandparents and do not fuss much anymore.
She orders the shrimp basket and a frickle, por favor.
I give the grand kids burgers with those greasy brown french fries,
And settle for a salad so my blood pressure don’t rise.
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