On an average morning, the clubhouse kitchen smells like stale beer, cold grease, and decades of questionable decisions.
It’s a commercial-grade space. It has stainless steel counters that have seen better days, an eight-burner industrial stove with two stubborn pilots that refuse to light without a grill lighter, and a walk-in cooler large enough to store an entire steer.
It’s used by serve up customers who order bar food with their drinks, so the professional cooking is basic. Left to their own devices, the men of the Grinning Skulls MC treat it like an oversized microwave station.
Right now, the counters are littered with crumpled paper bags from the burger joint down the highway, half-empty bags of stale tortilla chips, and a staggering pyramid of empty energy drink cans left behin
