This guy need some real BBQ Bad!!! This was an article in our local paper. I have edited to take names out of the restaurants with the exception where he is trying to make a point.
Hey, **** I have a favor to ask.
You’re the guy who owns ******, right? That really cool place in ***** with the awesome comfort-food menu and funky sports-memorabilia vibe? I know you don’t know me, but I really need you to help me out here. Please, I’m begging you, open a restaurant near my house.
You don’t understand what it’s like in *******, where I live. ******* is a great part of town, and my family really enjoys it out here, but we suffer from a pretty nasty affliction that I describe as Applerubychuck-e-gardenitis. I’ve had cases of this disease before, but I’ve never had it as bad as it’s been since I moved to this part of town a few years ago. I’m starting to fear the worst – that I’ll somehow start craving Brewtus Steak Burgers and Crispy Green Bean Fries and will only eat those items. If that happens, I’ll start to grow fearful of the outside world, terrified of change, and less attractive to the ladies. I’ll morph into the culinary equivalent of Gollum.
I’m not kidding when I say that almost everything in my area is a chain restaurant. Hop on ****** and head west. What do you see? Red Robin. Applebee’s. Steak ‘N’ Shake. Hometown Buffet. Another Applebee’s. You catch my drift. There are so many chain restaurants I’m surprised the government hasn’t established a Striped Rugby Shirt Hunting Season to prevent overpopulation of the species.
Yes, there are exceptions. There’s a great little Italian restaurant near my house called Nicoletti’s that’s as good as any you’ll find on The Hill. We also like this place called the Corner Pub & Grill, which just opened near us. And then there’s…well…um…
Seriously, I’m out of ideas. The other mom-and-pop restaurants around here, they aren’t terrible by any means, but they’re no *****. **** and I get excited about eating at those places. I enjoy the food when we take the fam to, say, Ruby Tuesday, but I don’t exactly squeal like a schoolgirl when we decide to go there. I bet if you asked the manager of your local Chili’s, he or she would say the same thing. Chain restaurants often are perfectly fine, but they just aren’t the same as a good local joint.
It’s not that we’re food snobs. Hardly. At least, I’m don’t think we are. When we see the word “chutney” on a menu, we mutter to each other that maybe we picked the wrong place. Good wine is as wasted on us as it would be if you poured it in a trough and let your neighbor’s dogs swim in it. If I went on “Jeopardy!” and one of the categories were called “Things That Taste Good Fried,” I’d laugh like an evil character in a bad comic-book movie. I mean, come on, in the last paragraph I named a restaurant with “Roadhouse” in the name as one of my favorite places to stuff my disgusting face.
We’re just really sick of feeling that we have to drive 20 or 30 minutes just to get to a restaurant that has a unique vibe, menu items that can’t quite be matched anywhere else, and a sterling lineup of wicked-tasty margaritas. Gas is almost $3.00 a gallon, and aside from that, sometimes we just don’t feel like driving an hour round-trip. But if we stay close to home, we’re left with another run to TGI Friday’s.
Maybe there are hidden jewels elsewhere in my neighborhood. If there are, they’re doing an awfully good job of hiding. So good that maybe they’re disguised as quik-lube shops and I mistakenly think all they do there is change people’s oil.
Oh, and God forbid we should want to go out for a really good martini. If the restaurant scene in West County is bad, the bar scene is even worse. Sorry, but if I want to go out for drinks, I don’t want a dude with suspenders that light up handing me my beer. At the same time, I want my waitress to have all her teeth. Out in the county, it seems like the only bars are either too brightly lit and disguised as family restaurants, or they’re the size of my bathroom and populated by people who look like maybe they either live there or are actually dead but not funky enough to have had it noticed just yet. What? You city folk thought you cornered the market on “neighborhood” bars? Ha. Trust me, if there’s a neighborhood, there’s a bar in it where everyone in the place turns and looks at you when you walk in.
Well, there are also those chicken-wing joints where the waitresses are dressed like adult film stars, and gosh, those places certainly do have their, um, selling points. On the other hand, I think going there more than maybe once or twice a year officially makes you a little bit creepy and/or in need of a date.
So, ********, I implore you. It seems like you know what you’re doing when it comes to restaurants. I’ve been to ****** quite a few times, and it seems like you’re making money there. Why not take a little bit of that and plunk down a new place at, oh, maybe very near Big Bend and Highway 141? If you want, you can just plow over one of the houses near the front of my subdivision. I’m sure the people living there won’t mind.
See you soon, ***. Let me know when the grand opening is. I’ll be the guy standing at the front door with his face pressed against the glass. Sorry in advance for the nose-smudges.
Hey, **** I have a favor to ask.
You’re the guy who owns ******, right? That really cool place in ***** with the awesome comfort-food menu and funky sports-memorabilia vibe? I know you don’t know me, but I really need you to help me out here. Please, I’m begging you, open a restaurant near my house.
You don’t understand what it’s like in *******, where I live. ******* is a great part of town, and my family really enjoys it out here, but we suffer from a pretty nasty affliction that I describe as Applerubychuck-e-gardenitis. I’ve had cases of this disease before, but I’ve never had it as bad as it’s been since I moved to this part of town a few years ago. I’m starting to fear the worst – that I’ll somehow start craving Brewtus Steak Burgers and Crispy Green Bean Fries and will only eat those items. If that happens, I’ll start to grow fearful of the outside world, terrified of change, and less attractive to the ladies. I’ll morph into the culinary equivalent of Gollum.
I’m not kidding when I say that almost everything in my area is a chain restaurant. Hop on ****** and head west. What do you see? Red Robin. Applebee’s. Steak ‘N’ Shake. Hometown Buffet. Another Applebee’s. You catch my drift. There are so many chain restaurants I’m surprised the government hasn’t established a Striped Rugby Shirt Hunting Season to prevent overpopulation of the species.
Yes, there are exceptions. There’s a great little Italian restaurant near my house called Nicoletti’s that’s as good as any you’ll find on The Hill. We also like this place called the Corner Pub & Grill, which just opened near us. And then there’s…well…um…
Seriously, I’m out of ideas. The other mom-and-pop restaurants around here, they aren’t terrible by any means, but they’re no *****. **** and I get excited about eating at those places. I enjoy the food when we take the fam to, say, Ruby Tuesday, but I don’t exactly squeal like a schoolgirl when we decide to go there. I bet if you asked the manager of your local Chili’s, he or she would say the same thing. Chain restaurants often are perfectly fine, but they just aren’t the same as a good local joint.
It’s not that we’re food snobs. Hardly. At least, I’m don’t think we are. When we see the word “chutney” on a menu, we mutter to each other that maybe we picked the wrong place. Good wine is as wasted on us as it would be if you poured it in a trough and let your neighbor’s dogs swim in it. If I went on “Jeopardy!” and one of the categories were called “Things That Taste Good Fried,” I’d laugh like an evil character in a bad comic-book movie. I mean, come on, in the last paragraph I named a restaurant with “Roadhouse” in the name as one of my favorite places to stuff my disgusting face.
We’re just really sick of feeling that we have to drive 20 or 30 minutes just to get to a restaurant that has a unique vibe, menu items that can’t quite be matched anywhere else, and a sterling lineup of wicked-tasty margaritas. Gas is almost $3.00 a gallon, and aside from that, sometimes we just don’t feel like driving an hour round-trip. But if we stay close to home, we’re left with another run to TGI Friday’s.
Maybe there are hidden jewels elsewhere in my neighborhood. If there are, they’re doing an awfully good job of hiding. So good that maybe they’re disguised as quik-lube shops and I mistakenly think all they do there is change people’s oil.
Oh, and God forbid we should want to go out for a really good martini. If the restaurant scene in West County is bad, the bar scene is even worse. Sorry, but if I want to go out for drinks, I don’t want a dude with suspenders that light up handing me my beer. At the same time, I want my waitress to have all her teeth. Out in the county, it seems like the only bars are either too brightly lit and disguised as family restaurants, or they’re the size of my bathroom and populated by people who look like maybe they either live there or are actually dead but not funky enough to have had it noticed just yet. What? You city folk thought you cornered the market on “neighborhood” bars? Ha. Trust me, if there’s a neighborhood, there’s a bar in it where everyone in the place turns and looks at you when you walk in.
Well, there are also those chicken-wing joints where the waitresses are dressed like adult film stars, and gosh, those places certainly do have their, um, selling points. On the other hand, I think going there more than maybe once or twice a year officially makes you a little bit creepy and/or in need of a date.
So, ********, I implore you. It seems like you know what you’re doing when it comes to restaurants. I’ve been to ****** quite a few times, and it seems like you’re making money there. Why not take a little bit of that and plunk down a new place at, oh, maybe very near Big Bend and Highway 141? If you want, you can just plow over one of the houses near the front of my subdivision. I’m sure the people living there won’t mind.
See you soon, ***. Let me know when the grand opening is. I’ll be the guy standing at the front door with his face pressed against the glass. Sorry in advance for the nose-smudges.
