Ruby Tuesday/TGI Fridays/O’Charley’s/Applebee’s/Red Lobster/Olive Garden/Etc. – Philadelphia, PA



No.

 

 

FOOD: 

.1 Star

This is how you take advantage of people: serve only items that hit all the most widely-shared flavor notes among your key demographics – as indexed and cross-referenced through countless laboratory flavor studies. Then work out a national deal for nothing but the most cost-effective (that means cheapest without being able to taste it) ingredients for your staff to unseal, microwave, warm up or fry, and serve in portions with enough processed calories to feed a North Korean labor camp for a month. Now that’s casual dining!

PRICE: 

Too Little Yet Too Much

Math designed to simultaneously accommodate and bilk the majority of proud American citizens.

AMBIENCE:

 Profit

Every single part of the décor (down to the color of the napkins) has been planned, reviewed by associates, reviewed by managers, reviewed by the CEO, completely redone, laboriously reviewed again by the aforementioned parties, redone slightly and then implemented (with an interior renovation already planned for 4th Quarter 2014). As charming as the firm of the accountant who ran the numbers (no hate on accountants).

SERVICE:

 The Only (Kinda) Upside

“So. So. So Drunch! You mean to tell me you’re not happy that food corporations are out there making jobs for hard-working Americans that are simply struggling to make ends meet? You’re saying that you want all the waitresses and hosts and cooks and managers and franchisees of the United States of America -- who decided to call Ruby Tuesday/TGI Fridays/O’Charley’s/Applebee’s/Red Lobster/Olive Garden/Etc. their place of employ -- to be kicked out of their homes and banished, broken and destitute, to overgrown street corners with their tiny children weeping (shirtless!) over torn teddy bears in the pouring, cold rain? Huh? HUH?!”

No. I just wish that these sorts of restaurants didn’t exist. That way, the good people that work there could find another job and the good people that eat there could eat somewhere else. Preferably, somewhere that would support the local economy (of which those workers and eaters are probably contributing members) rather than reverse-funneling money up into the offshore bank accounts of a board of directors who could give somewhere between zero and negative one shits about actual, lovingly-prepared food.

EAT OR SKIP: 

Weep

For there is no stopping them.

 

Lafayette Coney Island - Detroit, MI

            A man could wander into Lafayette Coney Island and think, “ugh.” He could order a Coney Dog or two and find himself underwhelmed by the traditional bun, uninteresting frank and the brown chili that drapes it. Hell, he could stick his nose under every last beige, steel, and seafoam green inch of the place and find nothing of note. Indeed, a man could do such a thing. But let us all hope we are not that man.

           

Picture C/O Foodspotting


            They say Detroit is dying.

            And not a clean, dignified death. A death that sips – not gulps – its life away. The city like a family member so far gone to disease that its residents are forced to love it through memories while trying not to hate what it has become.

            But that is not true.

            The people who lament its death don’t understand that a city cannot die. That death is reserved for us alone. That a city lives in the minds of the people and not in the buildings themselves. That no matter how much it crumbles, no matter how abandoned its skyscrapers or overgrown its lots, that the real city – the Detroit that’s visible only to those who love it – is still as vibrant as El Dorado.

            A man could look at Detroit and think, “so sad. A failed city.”

            Lafayette Coney Island is not a place for such a man. Detroit is not a place for such a man.

 

            In Lafayette Coney Island’s unwieldy name, in its dingy bathroom, in its frill-less food preparation, in its yellowed tile and aging ownership, there is something essentially human. A need to cling to tradition and to the past.  An “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” mentality applied to a situation that probably broke long ago.

            But if it were you, would it be any different?


Picture C/O Hollyeats.com

Circa 2010.

 

            How difficult must it be to own a landmark in a former metropolis? To see the city you loved change, and that for the worse? To see the very landscape around you weather an economic upheaval that has blown, war-like, through building and home alike? And ask yourself: what sort of man sees change like that – destructive, malicious change – and thinks, “well I should change too.” 

            Our perception, historians and physicists agree, defines reality. If we see a ball as green, it is a green ball. The ball has no say in the matter. If our perception told us the ball was red, not green, we would say the ball is red. The ball couldn’t speak up and protest its intrinsic “green-ness”. If we see it as green, it is green. If we see it as red, it is red. Which means, as our perception changes, so do the very objects we perceive. Allow me to explain.

            Lafayette Coney Island was born in a time when fast food was a blessing. Plates piled shoulder-high, the cooks slathered Coney dogs with signature chili and mustard, sprankled them with onions and slung ‘em down the counter to laborers and families alike. In 1914, or thereabouts, nobody thought of carbs or gluten or processed foods or ambience or poly-unsaturated fats.

 

Picture C/O Automobilemag


 

            Lafayette Coney Island contained clean plates and fresh food for minimal price. What more needed to be sold? The perception of the place was that it was wholesome, traditional and cheap. And that was the reality of the place.

            And while nothing has changed at Lafayette Coney Island, everything else has. And so reality has changed with it.

            What was perceived as “fast service” is now “low quality.” What was perceived as “diner ambience” seems haphazard and cramped. What was perceived as a “Traditional Coney Dog” is now a once-in-a-blue moon sodium-fest that any halfway health-conscious American will eat with a pang of involuntary guilt. All this could seem sad. But it’s not sad, it simply is.

 

Picture C/O Roadfood 


            People still love their Coney Dogs, despite what they now represent. People still love the ambience despite its hard-nosed adherence to the past. People still love the name, despite the fact that nobody outside of Michigan even knows what a Coney Island is.

            As our perception changes, so does reality itself. Whether we decide to like the resulting reality is up to us.

            And really, what is not to love about that dog. A warm bun surrounding a sizzling, all-American frank. The key ingredient, of course, being the chili that blankets the whole deal. Lafayette’s brand of chili being more meat than veg, and providing a low-level heat whose piquancy is supported and accentuated by the mustard and onions. It is not an ambitious combination, but then again, most great things rarely are. It is the height of simplicity, a taste spectrum distilled into 5-6, equal bites. It practically eats itself.

 

Picture C/O Theeatenpath


            They say Detroit is dying.

            But they can’t realize that death is simply another form of change. Certainly, Detroit may be crushed by a debt that has forced people out like mice from a burning barn. But that’s simply one version of Detroit.

            Did you know Henry Ford started two, failed motor companies?

            The first, the Detroit Automobile Company: went under after two years. The second, The Henry Ford Company, he quit after only a year. His third, the Ford Motor Company, you know that one.

            Could this Detroit be a first try?  A city from whose ashes a stronger Detroit will spring? Or is it a failed, last chance, forced into the same breath as Pompeii and Ephesus? Regardless of what Detroit is now, we know that time will bring change.

            And when the city changes – because there’s no way it can’t – will it be a single person who takes it upon themselves to mold the future Detroit, like Henry Ford did for cars and America itself? Or will the people leave Detroit, spreading like spores and germinating facets of Detroit in cities across America? Or will the people of Michigan simply weather the worst economic storm ever to make landfall in an American city, and, once it’s over, shrug it off like only a Michigander could?

            History repeats itself. It is a platitude and therefore, like all the oldest clichés, it is deeply true. Detroit rose from nothing and perhaps will sink back into that selfsame dirt. But it will not disappear. It was and therefore it can never not have been. And at some point, be it tomorrow, the day after or in a time none of us will ever see, I believe it will return. It will return thanks to song and story and dreams embedded, dormant, in the minds of people who could not forget.


            They say Detroit is dying.

            But they are not Detroit!

 

            And in that future, Lafayette Coney Island will stand unmoved, an anchor to the past. Uncompromising in its fare, its attitude, and its very existence in a city where existence is a privilege rather than a right.

            A man could wander into Lafayette Coney Island and see just another outdated diner, trapped in the pitiable midst of an expiring giant. But I am not that man. And neither are you.

 

FOOD: 

3.0 Stars

Coney. Dogs. If you like ‘em, 5 stars. If you don’t like ‘em, 1.

PRICE: 

Out of Pocket

After a night out, you can find yourself paying for an entire meal what you just paid for a single drink.

AMBIENCE:

Utility

Formica, steel and tile. It was built to last and last it has.

SERVICE: 

Speedy-keen

You get your dogs fast and with flair. Somehow, the spectacle of a man with like 8 platefuls of processed meat piled up to his shoulder never gets old.

EAT OR SKIP:

 Eat

A landmark that shows its age in the best possible ways. Uncompromising. Unpretentious. Unmissable.

 

Brookside Bagels - Simsbury, CT

I love Brookside Bagels. Let me state that fact plain. This does not come from any nepotism or even monetary coercion. Brookside Bagels, unsurprisingly, makes duper-fine bagels. In fact, I put together a couple of *gratis* ads for Brookside out of the kindness of my bagel-lurving heart. However, upon sharing the scripts with Brookside themselves, I received a less-than-carefully worded rejection. 

I was all like: SRSLY?! I mean c'mon. Who would turn down some free ads?

So instead, I've put them below for you to read. You be the judge!


BRIEF LIST OF AD TERMINOLOGY:

VO: Voice Over. Lines of dialogue delivered by an unseen person.

CUT: An abrupt transition between two scenes OR when the camera switches position.

SFX: Sound effects.

SPOT: A complete piece of advertising.

MONTAGE: A rapid succession of scenes. Used to tell a visual story without dialogue.



SPOT 1: BAGEL AFICIONADO

OPEN ON A MAN KISSING HIS WIFE GOODBYE BEFORE WORK. HE GIVES HIS SON A PAT ON THE HEAD.

VO: Bagel aficionados know...

THE MAN WALKS OUT OF HIS FRONT DOOR AND DOWN THE STONE PATH. HE STOPS HALFWAY, AND TURNS BACK TO LOOK AT HIS FAMILY IN THE DOORWAY.

VO: If your family can’t appreciate a homemade, delicious bagel from Brookside Bagels...

THE SON GIVES A TENTATIVE WAVE TO THE FATHER. A TEAR SPRINGS TO THE WIFE’S EYE.

VO: You get the hell out.

THE MAN FLIPS HIS FAMILY THE BIRD, SPITS ON THE SIDEWALK, AND PEELS AWAY ON A DODGE TOMAHAWK.


The lovechild of Easy Rider and Transformers 4: Seizure Explosionbots

Image C/O these guys with an apt name

And their source.




SPOT 2: THE BIRDS AND THE BAGELS

OPEN ON A LITTLE GIRL. SHE STANDS ON TIPTOES TO LOOK OVER THE COUNTER.

GIRL: Mommy, where do bagels come from?

MOM, FROM THE KITCHEN SINK, SMILES AT HER DAUGHTER. 

MOM: Well, honey. It all starts with a Daddy bagel and a Mommy bagel.

CUT TO A BAR SCENE USING SHIMMERY DREAM VFX. A BAGEL WITH A MUSTACHE, SMOKING A BLACK AND MILD, WALKS UP TO A BAGEL WEARING TOO MUCH MAKEUP AND A LOW CUT TOP.

MOM VO: The daddy bagel gets a good drunk on before finding the loosest mommy bagel in the joint.

THE MUSTACHE BAGEL STARTS FRENCHING THE LOW-CUT TOP WEARING BAGEL.

MOM VO: Then they get after it... raw dog. Do you know what raw dog means?

CUT BACK TO THE KITCHEN. THE DAUGHTER SHAKES HER HEAD. THE MOM RUFFLES HER HAIR.

MOM: Oh to be young... Well, let’s just say that they find a crusty motel and slam thatch.

CUT TO THE FRONT OF AN ECONOLODGE. A SINGLE ROOM IS LIT. SILHOUETTED BY CHEAP, RED CURTAINS, WE CAN MAKE OUT A ROTUND THRUSTING FORM.

MOM VO: Then, 9 months later... 

CUT TO A CALENDAR. 9 MONTHS WHIZZ BY.

MOM VO: Once the Daddy bagel is long gone.

CUT TO MOMMY BAGEL WITH A SIGNIFICANT BUMP -- WHERE HER BAGEL-HOLE SHOULD BE -- SMOKING A CIGARETTE, STARING OUT AN UNWASHED WINDOW. 

CUT TO THE FLOOR, A WET SPOT HAS APPEARED BENEATH HER ON THE BEIGE SHAG CARPET. THE MOMMY BAGEL STARES AT IT FOR A LONG TIME. 

MOMMY BAGEL: *Sighs*

CUT TO THE MOMMY BAGEL IN A SANITARY ROBE AND HEAD COVERING ON DELIVERY ROOM TABLE. DOUGH IS EVERYWHERE. BEADS OF PERSPIRATION APPEAR ON HER DETERMINED BAGELFACE. 

SFX: BABY'S WAIL

MOM VO: The mommy bagel goes to the baker. And...

CUT BACK TO THE KITCHEN. THE MOM WHIPS OUT A BAKER’S DOZEN OF WARM BROOKSIDE BAGELS FROM BEHIND HER BACK.

MOM: Voila! Bagels for everyone!

THE GIRL CHEERS AND WE SEE BEAUTY SHOTS OF THE BAGELS BEING TOASTED AND CREAM CHEESE BEING APPLIED.

CUT TO OUTSIDE THE HOUSE. A GIANT BAGEL IN LEATHER PULLS UP ON A DODGE TOMAHAWK. HE GAZES AT THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER THROUGH THE WINDOW. 

SFX: ENGINE RUMBLE

CUT IN CLOSE TO SEE A WISTFUL LOOK ON THE GIANT BAGEL’S FACE. 

VO: Brookside Bagels.

THE MOTHER SEES THE GIANT TOMAHAWK-RIDING BAGEL AND SLOWLY CLOSES THE CURTAINS.

CUT BACK TO THE BIG BAGEL. WE SEE A TEAR ROLL THROUGH HIS THICK MUSTACHE.

VO: Make it your little secret.


MENU WRITER: But how many colors do we REALLY need, Boss?

BOSS: (Rips off his glasses) All of them.

Image C/O Urban Spoon



SPOT 3: FUTURE-MAN

A FUTURE-MAN APPEARS OUT OF NOWHERE ON AN EIGHT-WHEELED DODGE TOMAHAWK. 

SFX: BYOH!

THE FUTURE-MAN’S SUIT IS EMBLAZONED WITH THE SMILING FACE OF JUSTIN BIEBER. JUSTIN BIEBER MAKES KISSY-FACES AT A PASSING TWEEN.

A WOMAN ON A BENCH STARES AT THE FUTURE-MAN, STOPPED MID-BITE INTO HER BROOKSIDE BAGEL.

FUTURE-MAN: (Speaking to the woman on the bench) Gak wazza byagel muncha? I fem de few-cha, hyeh!

WOMAN: Um… Excuse me?

THE JUSTIN BIEBER ON THE FUTURE-MAN’S SUIT FLIPS HIS HAIR AND WINKS AT THE WOMAN.

FUTURE MAN: Where gwan byagel grab hyeh?

WOMAN: I’m really sorry… I don’t... I can’t understand you…

THE WOMAN LOOKS CONFUSED AND TERRIFIED. THE FUTURE MAN GETS OFF THE DODGE TOMAHAWK AND POINTS RIGHT AT THE BAGEL, J-BIEB FLICKS HIS HAIR IN ANNOYANCE.

FUTURE MAN: Gwan byagel! Gweeze ya rumbly tumbly miss byench-sitta! Jos fin de byagel git!

WOMAN: I don’t.. I don’t...

THE WOMAN HAS BEGUN TO CRY.

SUIT J-BIEB: Vape boss yeah?

THE FUTURE MAN NODS AND PULLS OUT WHAT LOOKS LIKE A GARAGE-DOOR OPENER. A BLUE FLASH OF LIGHT OBSCURES THE SCREEN.

SFX: BYOH!

THE WOMAN IS VAPORIZED AND HER BAGEL FALLS TO THE BENCH. THE FUTURE MAN REACHES DOWN AND PICKS UP THE HALF-EATEN BAGEL. J-BIEB FAKE-SPITS AT THE PILE OF SIZZLING ASH THAT USED TO BE A LIVING, BREATHING WOMAN.

THE FUTURE MAN TAKES A BITE OF THE BAGEL AND SMILES.

BROOKSIDE BAGELS LOGO APPEARS.

VO: Brookside! Futuristically delicious!


A scrumptious strata.

Image C/O UrbanSpoon



SPOT 4: PA

OPEN INSIDE BROOKSIDE BAGELS. AN OLD MAN, A YOUNGER WOMAN AND HER SON (A TODDLER) STAND AT THE COUNTER.

WOMAN: I’ll have a cheddar bagel with “lite” cream cheese.

BOY: Bacum egg n’ cheese!

EVERYONE AROUND LAUGHS EXCEPT THE DOUR-LOOKING COUNTER GIRL.

WOMAN: What do you want, Pa?

PA SHAKES HIS HEAD.

PA: No, no. No bagel for me.

WOMAN: Oh, pa. You never have a bagel. These are the best! What is wrong with you?

CUT TO A CLOSEUP OF PA’S EYES. WE RUN BACK IN TIME. HIS EYES BECOME YOUNGER, FULLER WITH LIGHT. THE CROW’S FEET MELT INTO TANNED, YOUTHFUL SKIN.


CUT OUT. PA STANDS IN AN OVERGROWN LOT WEARING A BAKER’S APRON. PA CARRIES A BURLAP BAG.

ACROSS FROM PA, A MANGY, BROWN DOG SITS IN THE GRASS.

YOUNG PA: Here boy…

THE DOG SHIES AWAY. ITS FUR IS CAKED WITH DIRT.

YOUNG PA: Oh I’m not going to hurt you, boy. C’mere. C’mon.

THE DOG CONTINUES TO OOCH AWAY. YOUNG PA THINKS FOR A SECOND THEN PULLS A BAGEL FROM THE BAG.

YOUNG PA: Here boy. You’ll like this.

THE DOG STOPS. LOOKS BACK WITH HEAD HUNG LOW.

YOUNG PA: C’mon boy. C’mon.

YOUNG PA CROUCH-WALKS TOWARD THE DOG AND THE DOG STAYS STILL. YOUNG PA GETS THE BAGEL TO WITHIN INCHES OF ITS FACE. THE DOG’S RIBS SHOW THROUGH ITS SKIN. 

WITH A LUNGE, THE DOG TAKES THE MORSEL. YOUNG PA ATTEMPTS TO GRAB ITS FURLS OF SKIN, BUT MISSES. THE DOG BACKS AWAY. 

CUT CLOSE TO YOUNG PA’S FACE. HE HAS AN IDEA.


CUT TO THE SIDEWALK. YOUNG PA IS LEADING THE DOG HOME WITH A TRAIL OF TORN-OFF BAGEL CRUMBS. 


CUT TO YOUNG PA AT THE FRONT DOOR. THE FRAME IS ASKEW AND THE SCREEN IS RIPPED OUT AND BLOWING IN SUMMER HEAT. AT YOUNG PA’S SIDE IS THE DOG, MUNCHING HAPPILY ON THE LAST OF THE BAGEL. A RATTY PIECE OF ROPE TIED AROUND ITS NECK LEADS TO PA’S HAND.


A LARGE, BLACK SHADOW APPEARS IN THE DOOR. ALL WE CAN MAKE OUT IS THE RED BLOOM OF THE END OF A CIGAR. IT ILLUMINATES A BULBOUS, LARGELY PORED NOSE.

YOUNG PA: Hi Pa.

PA’S PA: What’s this?

YOUNG PA: My dog.

PA’S PA: Looks rabid.

SFX: THE DOG WHIMPERS.

YOUNG PA: No he’s not. He’s calm and all. I can feed him and do everything for him. You won’t even know he’s here.

THE DOG LETS OUT A LITTLE TOOT.

SFX: DOGTOOT

CUT TO PA’S PA WRINKLING HIS NOSE.

PA’S PA: Dog probly got rabies. You let him go y’hear.

PA’S PA DISSIPATES BACK INTO THE DARK INSIDE. YOUNG PA LOOKS DOWN AT THE DOG WHO LOOKS BACK UP AT HIM, WAGGING HIS TAIL. 


CUT TO THE RAILYARD. WEEDS SPRING UP AROUND RUSTED TRACKS. YOUNG PA LETS GO OF THE RATTY LEASH. THE DOG DOESN’T RUN. 

YOUNG PA: Go on! Hya!

THE DOG WINCES BUT STAYS SITTING.  YOUNG PA GOES TO LEAVE AND THE DOG FOLLOWS HIM. YOUNG PA TURNS, PICKS UP A CLOD OF DIRT AND CHUCKS IT AT THE DOG. YOUNG PA MISSES BUT THE DOG YELPS AND RUNS AWAY.


CUT TO THE KITCHEN. YOUNG PA IS BACK IN BAKING ATTIRE. HE PLACES A BAG OF BAGELS ON THE DINNER TABLE.

PA’S PA AND PA’S MA SIT AT EITHER END IN GRAY SILENCE. PA'S PA GRABS A PUMPERNICKEL BAGEL.

CUT TO CLOSEUP OF PA’S PA’S MOUTH. HE MASHES PUMPERNICKEL BETWEEN HIS TEETH. FLECKS FALL DOWN INTO HIS GRAYING GOATEE. 

PA’S PA: MMMMmmmmMMM. Love pumpernickel.

YOUNG PA PUTS HIS BAKER’S APRON OVER THE SEAT, TAKES A BAGEL AND ASKS TO BE EXCUSED.

SFX: PA’S MA GRUNTS

CUT OUTSIDE TO A BROWN, MIDWESTERN EVENING. PA SNEAKS TO THE SIDE OF THE PORCH.

SFX: YOUNG PA WHISTLES QUIETLY

CUT TO CLOSE-UP OF DOG’S HEAD EMERGING FROM UNDER THE PORCH. THE DOG HAPPILY EATS THE BAGEL FROM YOUNG PA’S HAND.


MONTAGE OF FUTURE DINNERS: YOUNG PA PUTS A BUNCH OF BAGELS DOWN. PA’S PA GORGES ON PUMPERNICKEL BAGELS. YOUNG PA STEALS A BAGEL AWAY AND FEEDS THE DOG. THE DOG LOOKS HEALTHIER AND HEALTHIER AS TIME GOES ON.


THE MONTAGE ENDS AND WE CUT TO THE FAMILY SITTING AT THE DINNER TABLE, AS SEEN THROUGH A RAINY WINDOW. INSIDE WE SEE YOUNG PA SLIP A BAGEL INTO HIS POCKET. 

CUT TO A CLOSE UP OF PA’S PA’S EYES SLITTING WITH SUSPICION. 

PA GOES OUTSIDE AND FEEDS THE DOG AS NORMAL. BEHIND HIM WE CAN SEE THE RED BULB OF A CIGAR THROBBING IN THE WINDOW.

SFX: THUNDER


CUT TO NEXT DINNER. PA GOES TO FEED THE DOG AS USUAL. 

SFX: PA WHISTLES QUIETLY.

CUT TO DARKNESS UNDER PORCH. WE SEE NOTHING BUT WET, BROWN LEAVES.

SFX: YOUNG PA WHISTLES A BIT MORE LOUDLY

SFX: DOG WHIMPERS

YOUNG PA LOOKS UP. PA’S PA HAS THE DOG IN ONE HAND AND A REMINGTON IN THE OTHER. 

SFX: YOUNG PA GASPS

PA’S PA: This here dog is rabid. 

YOUNG PA: No he’s not.

PA’S PA: Tried to bite me. 

PA’S PA OFFERS OUT THE REMINGTON.

PA’S PA: Either you’re going to do it or I am.

YOUNG PA: But, he ain’t rabid! Please… Just… Just let him go!

PA’S PA: Will you do it? Or do I have to?

YOUNG PA: Pa! Please!

PA’S PA: Alright then.

PA’S PA STOMPS INTO THE WOODS. YOUNG PA, HAIR PLASTERED FLAT TO SCALP, SLUMPS DOWN IN THE MUD AND THE RAIN AND CRIES.

SFX: THUNDER

SFX: GUNSHOT


CUT TO LATE AT NIGHT IN THE BAKERY. YOUNG PA POURS PUMPERNICKEL INTO A BOWL. HE MIXES THE BOWL BY HAND. THEN HE PULLS OUT ANOTHER BAG, ON THE SIDE IS AN UPSIDE DOWN RAT WITH A SKULL NEXT TO IT. YOUNG PA MEASURES OUT A CUP AND POURS IT INTO THE BOWL.


CUT TO THE DINNER TABLE. YOUNG PA PUTS DOWN THE BAG OF BAGELS LIKE NORMAL.

PA’S PA REACHES OUT AND GRABS A PUMPERNICKEL BAGEL. ACROSS THE TABLE, WE SEE YOUNG PA LOWER HIS HEAD. 

CLOSE UP OF PA’S PA’S MOUTH. CRUMBS AND BAGEL-MUSH CHURN THEN DISAPPEAR.

SFX: A TRAIN’S HORN HOOTS SOMEWHERE FAR OUTSIDE.

CUT TO PA’S PA ON THE GROUND, WRITHING AS FOAM SLIPS FROM HIS LIPS AND PLOPS ON THE YELLOWED LINOLEUM.

PA’S MA: (flustered) Call an ambulance! Tell them it’s rabies! Go on! Call somebody!

YOUNG PA STANDS BY THE PHONE. HOLDING THE RECEIVER LIMP AT HIS SIDE.

PA’S MA: (screaming) Call somebody!

SLOW ZOOM ON YOUNG PA’S EYES. WE GO IN AND IN. WRINKLES TUNNEL INTO HIS CHEEKS. THE SKIN YELLOWS AND SPOTS APPEAR AS HIS EYES FADE AND DULL.


CUT TO THE LITTLE BOY, TUGGING ON PA’S SLEEVE IN BROOKSIDE BAGELS. PRESENT DAY.

MOTHER: Don’t be a grouch, Pa! Have a bagel!

BOY: Yeah Popop. Havem begel!

EVERYBODY NEARBY IN LINE LAUGHS, EVEN THE DOUR CASHIER. PA LOOKS AROUND, A SMILE APPEARS ON HIS FACE.

PA: Well, alright.

EVERYBODY: Yayyyyy!

VO: Nobody can resist a fresh Brookside Bagel.

THE BROOKSIDE BAGELS LOGO RIDES IN ON A DODGE TOMAHAWK.



Lush. Luscious.

Image C/O Yelp user Johnathan S.


FOOD: 

3.5 Stars

This is the best bagel I’ve had. Bar nothing. Crunchy outside, soft, fall-apart-moist inside. Every flavor and style: bagelfection. So, why 3.5 stars? Nearly everything else on the menu (except bagels and breakfast sandwiches) is meh.

PRICE: 

Low-ish

Though it is Connecticut, you won't need a country club membership to afford this joint. $5 for a bagel and morning coffee sort of deal.

AMBIENCE:

Afterthought

Wooden furniture. Local art on the walls. Small. For my money, don't eat in. Take it home and enjoy it with some crisp CT air and televised American Football.

SERVICE: 

Simsbury High School

Have you ever ordered anything from a teenager? There you go.

EAT OR SKIP: 

Eat

Anyone who’s said they've had the “best bagel ever” without trying Brookside is a filthy, cretinous liar.




Marcy's Diner - Portland, ME

Man A: Are you ready to go?

Man B: If you’ll lend us an ear.

Man 2: As we review Marcy’s.

Man 3: …

Man 2: Um, Man 3 isn’t here. 


Man A: Hmm, the timing is right.

Man B: Wednesday morn on the dot.

Man 2: I’m really sorry guys, but here he is not.

Man 3: …


Man A: Man 2 that was your duty!

Man B: Your call and your charge!

Man 2: I really am sorry, I feel like an ass that’s quite large.

Man 3: …


Man A: Well this is a boot in the jeans.

Man B: A tap to the jewels.

Man 2: Where the hell could he be?

Man 3: Yo, what up fools!


Man A: Finally, good goodness.

Man B: You’ve decided to show.

Man 2: What took you so long?

Man 3: Um, some stuff... Look, let’s go.


They gawt a sense a hume-a!

Picture C/O Tripadvisor



A-5, 6, 7, 8!


Man A: Well haven’t you heard?

Man B: Rave reviews did you see?

Man 2: For a diner in Portland by the name of?

Man 3: Man 3?


Man A: Already, you cooked it.

Man B: Straight into the pot!

Man 2: Dude, we’re rhyming about Marcy’s.

Man 3: That’s not what I thought.


Man A: We absolutely are.

Man B: Marcy’s Diner you know?

Man 2: Open for breakfast + brunch,

Man 3: I don’t know that place, yo.


Man A: What the hell, man?

Man B: Seriously, what the hay?

Man 2: We’re only here to review it.

Man 3: Well why didn’t you say?


Man A: It was on the invite.

Man B: yeah seriously Man 3.

Man 2: Ohhhh, I forgot to give it to him.

Man 3: Haha! Boom!… See?!


Man A: Well we’re doing it now.

Man B: This is taking too long.

Man 2: Alright, we’re reviewing Marcy’s Diner.

Man 3: Yo check out this song.


Man A: Jesus in God’s heaven!

Man B: Poo out a brick!

Man 2: I vouched for you Man 3.

Man 3: What? Why are you being a dick?


Man A: Hey! No more profanity!

Man B: We’re here for Marcy’s, see?

Man 2: Didn’t you eat there yesterday?

Man 3: Is it right on Oak St. and Free?


Man A: That corner precisely.

Man B: Green front, hard to miss.

Man 2: It’s the one with the flag.


Man 3: Wait. Crap. Looks like this? 


Man A: So, have you been then?

Man B: Yeah, you really did go?

Man 2: He was most likely baked.

Man 3: hahahahahahahaha right? Y’know?


Man A: Cease this talk about drugs!

Man B: We’re child-friendly: PG.

Man 2: Oh right, Man 3, play along.

Man 3: That’s one lame-ass strategy.


Man A: Well, gentlefolks love it.

Man B: “peeps” all kinds, you know.

Man 2: We’re doing this mainstream.

Man 3: Shi... I mean, fu.. Whatever, let’s go.


Man A: …OK, so we’re ready?

Man B: Seriously, all set?

Man 2: I know that I am.

Man 3: Yeah, sure. You bet!


Man A: Alright, Marcy’s is fine.

Man B: For breakfast in a pinch.

Man 2: Hash browns that are solid.

Man 3: Though cash only’s a bitch.


Man A: Hey! Though that is quite true.

Man B: And no ATM nearby.

Man 2: Means it’s less than convenient.

Man 3: Like c’mon Marcy’s, try.


Man A: The Hobo Hash is indicative.

Man B: Of the whole place.

Man 2: Home fries, chili, cheese, eggs

Man 3: Straight to the face.



No, that’s not my finger in the side of the picture! IGNORE IT!


Man A: The proportion’s humongous.

Man B: Made with love not finesse.

Man 2: And the end result, while tasty.

Man 3: Is kind of a mess.


Man A: Flavors sink into flavors 

Man B: Meld to form a gut bomb

Man 2: Enough food for a family.

Man 3: Even ur mom.


Man A: ...The best part’s the muffins

Man B: Heated straight off the grill.

Man 2: Though the coffee is standard

Man 3: ...I shouldn’t have taken that pill.


Man A: Seriously? What did he say?

Man B: We were doing so well…

Man 2: Man 3 what’s the deal?

Man 3: What if our skin was a shell?


Man A: Please tell me this isn’t happening.

Man B: Seriously, what did he take?

Man 2: I dunno he’s f-ing out-there

Man 3: Hee! That’s no hat for a snake!


Man A: So he’s tripping now, right?

Man B: Look, he’s crawling around.

Man 2: He’ll be fine in a minute…

Man 3: Sergeant Hissy just frowned.


Man A: Can we do this without him?

Man B: Yeah it’s pretty simple to do.

Man 2: Ummm. *Looks over at Man 3*

Man 3: A plus B equals… moo!



Hello, old friend.

Picture C/O Jemura42



Man A: Forget it, let’s try.

Man B: Yeah we were talking about coffee.

Man 2: So should we move to the service?

Man 3: Yebdo qhi ni Pon Mofee.


Man A: Oh now he’s talking in tongues!

Man B: This is really distracting...

Man 2: I knew I shouldn’t have invited him! 

Man 3: Haha, boom bitches! Acting!


Man A: Wait, you were fine all along?

Man B: You son of a bitch!

Man 2: Jesus dude, I was worried.

Man 3: Chill out y’all, what’s the sitch?


Man A: The “sitch” is you’ve sunk us .

Man B: An abject disaster.

Man 2: Yeah man, I doubt anyone’s still reading.

Man 3: Whatever, you’re lame and I’m plastered.


Man A: Plastered or not... 

Man B: Let’s just finish this thing.

Man 2: *whispering* actually it was pretty funny.

Man 3: *whispering back* Man A’s eyes were all *p-ting!*


Man A: Alright, Marcy’s: their service.

Man B: Been fast and courteous to me.

Man 2: Though the owner has a slight ‘tude.

Man 3: Hey, courtesy ain’t free.


Man A: Her personality is strong, I’ll concede.

Man B: But the food is the point.

Man 2: It’s fine enough for a diner.

Man 3: After a big fatty j… appoint… ment.


Killer selection of SOUCE, though.


Man A: I’ve had the corned beef hash.

Man B: The litmus test of a diner.

Man 2: Yeah we both had that too.

Man 3: And I have had finer.


Man A: That’s precisely the key.

Man B: It seems no matter what you get.

Man 2: It’s stick to your ribs tasty.

Man 3: But it’s never the best bet.


Man A: Yes, indeed it is good.

Man B: But for the rave reviews we've heard.

Man 2: After Caiola’s and Hot Suppa,

Man 3: this ain’t even third.


Man A: Indeed an adequate summation.

Man B: It’s the truth there’s no doubt.

Man 2: The best brunch in Portland?

Man 3: This is not, yo. Peace OUT.




FOOD: 

3.0 Stars

The type of meal where the first bite is great, and the last one is a labor.

PRICE: 

Standard

Nothing to break the bank. You’ll get more than stuffed for $14. Or just take it easy and you can skate out for under $10.

AMBIENCE: 

Homey

Lots of kitsch and “Kiss the cook... OR ELSE” type fridge stickers. Def cozy tho.

SERVICE: 

Homey

Again, like at home, they’re warm and know your name, but they won’t hesitate to give you some good-natured guff.

EAT OR SKIP: 

Skip

Sure, there’s a lot that Marcy’s does really right. It’s just that in Portland, the brunch options abound. For minimally more, and in some cases less money, you can find a brunch that’s about 4x better.






Big G's - Winslow, ME

George was hungry. Actually, George = hungry would be more correct. To be perfectly clear: George was, is and will continue to be hungry long after his inevitable death.

However, George wasn’t a big man. He could hide his malady. At work as a file clerk for a local law firm, he hid his snacks. This being 1985, paperwork was at a near-maximum. The rows upon rows of cabinets containing case files and litigation records and profiles allowed for quite a bit of “squirreling-away” space.

Had he lost the occasional homemade nutbar? Sure. Had he actually forgotten a tuna salad sandwich for four weeks in a drawer marked Case Files: HUK-HUKL? Ok, yes. Yes, he had.

Had said tuna sub (alright it was a whole sub [!double-stuffed with tuna!]) been found by a public defender at 3 AM and caused said public defender to lose his own lunch (and dinner) onto the very files that he’d been searching out. Affirmative. Had this earned said public defender the nickname, “The HUK-HUKLer?” 

Roger.

Indeed, it had cost George his job. And while we’re at it, yes, the aforementioned blunder was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back in George’s tumultuous fifteen year marriage (food always being at the heart of the discord). Did his wife get the house? Yes again, Mr./Mrs. nosey -- the lawyer at George’s side was the HUK-HUKLer himself, assigned to marital litigation b/c of George’s inability to pay for his own lawyer (food expenditures, you see).

Now (the day of our tale, Oct. 16, 1985, Waterville, ME) George had nothing left. No place to stay, no wife, no clothes other than those on his back. Most importantly: no food. He was famished.

What he did have was fourteen cents to his name. Not even enough for a bag a’ cashews.

George was exiting the Quality Court parking lot when he heard a voice say, “Hungry?”

A bearded old man with craned back and burlap (yes, burlap) slacks jigged from behind a tree. It was weird and George picked up his pace.

“Oh yes-ee! Still hungry," said the old man. "You’ve got the hunger-eyes!” 

George had never heard a sane man talk like this and kept up the avoiding.

“What if I offered you the chance to never go hungry again? Just for the fourteen cent in ya pocket!”

George stopped. How could this old weird-o know he only had fourteen cents? The old man clapped his hands and smacked his red lips. But no. There was no talking to an old crazy like this...

“No, no thank you, sir,” said George, rapidly bobbing his head in the way one who is departing does.

“Ohhh hoo dee hee!” said the old man, rapping his knee with his knuckles. “Don’t pass up a deal like this. Just take a good long look at what you’re missing.” With an uncanny flourish, the old man pulled a sandwich from behind his back: glorious, stuffed, overflowing with meats and cheeses. Steam rose from its fresh-baked bun.


Ohhh hoo dee hee!


George stopped again.

“Got the old peepers and stomach in parlay I see,” the old man laughed again, coughed, and a car horn honked somewhere. “Call her the Lucretia Borgia: best sandy you can find. One bite and you’ll never go hungry again.” More laughs followed by a coughing fit. 

From the looks of the sandwich, one bite would never be enough; it was the size of an Oxford Dictionary. 

“And I can have that?” said George. “That whole sandwich.”

“Oh the whole doodlebug! Yes-ee!” said the old man, eyes watering from all the coughing. “Never hungry again,” he said, doing a weak little jig, stopped short by the threat of more coughing.

George could smell the sandwich from where he stood: wafts of rich, cured pork, tangy pepperoncini, and the warm, almost cake-like scent of the bread. His stomach made the decision for him. It always had.

George handed over his coins and tried not to touch the old man’s gnarled hands. He was not successful.

The sandwich was dense. As George brought it to his lips, the old man began to laugh. Higher and higher and louder and faster. The old man’s maniacal laughter should, probably, have tipped George off that something bad was in store. But it didn’t. George bit in.

Ecstasy.

He felt something happening inside. Something he had never felt before, but knew, intimately the moment it spread within him. Sweet joy of joys, he was full! Wholly and completely full! Satiation at one bite, and yet there were so many more.  He took another bite; it completed him with a fullness he’d never experienced. It expanded with heat and warmth from his very stomach to the utter extremities of his form. George took a third bite. Then a fourth. And again and again. 

George could no longer hear the old man’s hacking cackles. The taste and process of eating consumed him. He was full. Finally full. Bite after bite, the sandwich seemed never ending.

But then it began. Too full. The sides of his stomach ached. His head began to pound. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. The food felt like it was expanding. He couldn't stop himself.

And then the old man’s cackling came back. Thundering.

George’s gut flopped out all at once. His limbs sprouted and grew. His legs expanded by five times into soggy pools of flesh before shooting him upward, rolling the skin and muscle as they climbed. George's screams lowered in rapid octaves as he grew.

And in his head, names appeared. An endless wall of monikers, crowding for space. Dr. Seuss. Richard Simmons. Mad Max. Wishbone. Sea Pig. Bebe Rebozzo. Dr. Johnny Fever. And on and on and on. Each name had a flavor: savory, bold, sweet, complex, acidic, crunchy. Each one married to a flavor and girth that expanded the walls of his mind, out and out and out.


Pick a sandwich in under a minute and I will personally knit you a hat (I won’t).


When the pain and growing stopped, George was at least forty stories tall. He wore a red polo and pleated khakis the size of a stadium’s tarp. His loafers had the capacity of Olympic pools. 

And in his massive head swirled nothing but names. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know why he was here. He didn’t even know who he was. Simply the hunger and the names remained. 

If he were paying attention, he would have seen the old man hop into a little wooden cart and use his feet to skeedle away. But he didn’t. Bye bye old man.

George surveyed the landscape. Cars had stopped and people were screaming. He was hungry again. George imagined a sandwich, rich in meat and ingredients, and then a name popped into his head, Miles Standwich. It sounded nice.

“Miles Standwich,” roared George. And just like that, a doublewide-sized sandwich appeared in his hand. Like, *SMAGOOF*. There it was.

He took a bite. Hot turkey, laden with fresh, homemade stuffing, melted swiss and a healthy dollop of cranberry sauce, nestled between two slices of hearty, fresh-out-of-the-oven, AMERICAN bread.


X-Men III: The Last Standwich

Picture C/O Road Food


George dug in. The turkey mingled with the stuffing and the cranberry provided a sweet tang to round it all out. 

Unfortunately, the tattoo of a helicopter’s blades broke his mealtime reverie; wouldn’t you know it, it was the National Guard.

George rose up to meet them, *POOFALOOF* a Cornball in one hand, *PAPOOSE* a Tina Tuna in the other. He smiled: so many peoplekins to feed!

But, said peoplekins were less than hungry. A missile sizzled from the helicopter’s side. Screaming, it caught George in the pelvis, bringing him to his knees.

“Sea Pig?” he said in a voice halfway between a foghorn and a tree trunk cracking in half. The shot blasted a chunk off him, revealing fresh cold cuts of every variety inside. He looked from his wound to the line of drab vehicles, treads squealing as they closed in. “Rowdy Yates!” he said, before chucking a cadillac-sized sandwich into the chopper’s blades.

With the disgruntled noise of a gummed engine, the chopper dove into the ground, taking out a humvee in the ensuing conflagration. The tanks stopped and in the air came the peel of old-man laughter, somewhere far away. It was only broken by the thunder and puff of more tank rounds. George ran. 

His loping steps took him through the center of town, across the Kennebeck river and into the rolling hills of Winslow. The National Guard gave chase. 

It was on a long, lazy road called Gifford -- when a tank round caught his knee -- that George was forced to make his last stand.

Fire rang back and forth. The military forces had to extract vehicles from under slabs of moist roast beef. Infantrymen dodged marinated mushrooms as big as wrecking balls. A pinned specialist gnawed her way to freedom through three layers of pepperoni. A brobdingnagian dollop of cream cheese landed on a mortar team; their screams were never heard.

Only after the sun cleared the horizon and long shadows felt their way across George’s prostrate form, did the firing finally stop.

Sergeant First Class Henry Willowbrook, weapon raised, stepped over a puddle of mustard to tentatively toe George’s side. The giant didn’t move. 

He looked back to his company, a smile on his face.

“Well,” he said, addressing every man and woman present. “Lets eat!”

A cheer rose through the ranks and they descended on George’s cold-cut smorgasbord of a body. Staff Sergeants ate until they puked and then ate more. Tanks were laden with meats and cheeses to be carted back to base. Even the First Sergeant made an appearance, sporting a bib that said “Hungy Boy.”

It was a feast that has not been rivaled before or since.,

A year later, in 1986, a memorial was placed to that grand battle. It was not a monument, or a stone, or even a grave, but a shop. A shop where silly-enormous sandwiches can still be bought for next to nothing and eaten until the eater, quite non-literally, is ready to die. 


R.I.P. George – like dis if u cry evry time


You can visit that 'diculous deli, as many people do, on a quiet road in Winslow, Maine. And if you do pull up there, some bright afternoon, don't forget to salute the sign. For that's the very face of George, the short-lived, sandwich-creating giant, smiling down upon you.


FOOD: 
3.5 Stars

Seriously humongous sandwiches with quality ingredients. WARNING: eating a whole sandwich in one go requires both crazy stomach capacity and unthinkable self-loathing.

PRICE: 
‘Donculous

 A half sandwich (that’s more like 2 sandwiches) for ~$7.00 and a whole (that’s more like 4) for ~$9.00? GEDDAFRIQOUTTAHEEYA

AMBIENCE: 
Disregard (for your own good)

  Designed by your uncle in the 70s. Just close your eyes and think of England.

SERVICE: 
Over the Counter

They take your order. They are nice. You get a buzzer. You pick up your food. Bambingo.

EAT OR SKIP: 
Eat

Big G’s is legendary. No other place makes sandwiches this big AND this good. An hour drive from Portland, it's not close, but it's not far. Treat yourself. You deserve it.




11th Street Diner - South Beach, FL

Tommy “Boss” Higgins just totally jumped over a sleeping bum. His bros grabbed and squeezed his biceps in a celebratory way that was totally not gay and just bro love.

One of the grabbers was Danny “Tan” Vega, Tommy’s best bro; they’d been lock-tight like since like the first second of orientation.

After a night of raging on X until the sun rose and lit the tits of the hot-ass chicks they were grinding to equal and individual pulps, the boys needed muscle food. They needed greasy, hot, bicep burgers. Piping, moist pec patties. Steaming, filthy glute fruit. They made up a couple more foods then stopped before it got weird.

As it turned out, not every dawg was hungry. Jayron “Rudeboi” Jefferson had a test tomorrow and needed to crash. OK OK. Get your study on. OK.

Vick “BadonkeyDong” Schwartz was straight tired yo and look at the shmutz on his shoes. Gotta clean up that clubgoo for certain.

Helio “MarcoPolo” Marcovian, Jens “Ikea Monkey” Aaronsen, and Hubbard “Hubbard” Banks III all had peaced mad early to rage on Marco’s boat with the help of some choice booger sugar. Which left just Boss and Tan, together and forever bro-mates, crushing SoBe in tandem.

Where to go where to go, the brethren wondered aloud.

“T-Mex?” said Boss.

“Nah,” said Tan.

“News Cafe?”

“You gay, bra?”

“11th Street.”

With a wave of a Tan’s fastidiously browned hand, the boys rolled.

11th St. Diner is a piece of undeniable, O.G. SoBe lore.  “It’s an art deco dining car,” said Boss, pointing to the hulk, shining on the corner of Washington and 11th.


Nostalgic whitey mecca

Picture C/O 11th St. Diner


“Yo what the fuck is art deco?” Tan lowered a pair of Ray Bans he’d copped straight out of his Dad’s dresser. 

“I don’t know,” said Boss. “Some design style from the 30s and 40s.” Tan’s eyebrow went sunward. “Yo how do you always know this shit?”

Boss shrugged and they ducked inside.

Like every indoor space on South Beach the cold air was blasting. Red-faced, Slavic tourists littered the place. Boss and Tan snagged seats at the bar, waiting for one of the beaming, South American, 40-something wait-people to sling them some coffee. The decor was “nuts,” according to Tan, “period-specific,” according to Boss. As for food, You could always order a super-solid omelette, hash + eggs, or pancakes or some junk. But the boyz knew better. Alexia, a waitress, mother, and wearer of constant smiles, asked the boys what they would like.

It being Saturday (despite the fact that the bros got enough ass last night for it to technically be Tuesday), Tan went for the Fried Chicken Wings and Waffles. Boss threw down for two eggs (easy), two sausages (links), Biscuits and Gravy, natch. 

“Yo, that chick in the pink you were destroying last night,” said Boss. “What was her name?”

“Does it matter?” said Tan. High fives ensued. “No but seriously, she was crazy fine,” Boss continued. “You catch her name?”

“I don’t remember bitch’s names,” said Tan with a look of disdain. “Bros for life, right?” Tan grabbed Boss’ shoulders and massaged them hard for too long. Silence ensued. This had happened before.

In a hot minute Alexia -- a waitress who seemed not to notice Boss’ shutter shades, or Tan’s neon “Rage Sauce” tank -- dropped chow and the bros shoveled. Boss’s ‘scuits were standard solid and the gravy thick enough to pull off a boot.


Pave ya driveway with that gray-vay

Picture C/O Creative Commons


Plus, no worries about the calories since Boss could burn them in like twenty dips. Tan minced around his chicken even though it was deep-fried and moist. The waffles steamed and looked decent crispy. 

Tan glanced sideways at Boss. “Yo, you want to just hang out like old times tonight?” 

Boss turned. “What, like have a sleep over?” 

“No,” said Tan, shoving away from the bar, spreading his arms. “No! You gay or something?” Tan was still junked on The Mix: X, Blow, and enough vodka sodas to fill an Aerobed.

“Naw man, I just didn’t know what you meant,” said Boss. “Sit back down. Chill yo. Chill.”

“You’re the smart guy,” said Tan, tapping his salon-cut coiffe. “I thought you’d know.” 

Tan sat back down. He took a bite of the waffles. “Good yo, you want some?” 

Before Boss could answer Tan had cut off a slab chicken, nestled some waffle on top and carefully drizzled syrup over the whole thing.


Miggity-iggity-myocardial Infarction at 33: live fat die happy yo

Picture C/O Evan Swigart 


“Nah man I’m good,” said Boss. 

“What? You afraid of cooties or something?” Tan moved the bite close to Boss’ lips. Boss pulled back. 

“Yo, have some man,” said Tan, laughing in a brittle way. “Have some.” Tan kept advancing, Boss pulling back. “Yo,” said Boss. “Yo!”

Tan pushed Boss out of his seat and they were on the floor, Tan kissing Boss’ lips. Boss struggled but Tan had always been stronger.

“I thought about this,” Tan said, breath ragged. “I think about it all the time.” Boss wasn’t kissing back, trying to keep his lips sealed. What was happening? His pulse reverberated in his head, as loud as if it belonged to nature itself. He heard a group of large men and women laughing. The place felt too close. He almost didn’t notice that Tan was punching him now. Raining blows on his chest and face. 

Tan was crying. Boss kept saying stop, but Tan wouldn’t relent. Alexia looked up over the counter and screamed. The sound of it, high and still somehow tinged with accent, stopped Tan mid-windup. He sat on Boss’ chest, his face a mask of anger, guilt, and horror all at once. Silence hung in the place like spook-house smoke. With a gasp -- somewhere between pain and relief -- Tan sprang up and ran out the door into the baking sun.

Boss shook to a standing position. “You ok?” said Alexia, actual and genuine concern painted on her face. 

“I don’t know,” said Boss, unsure of whether to finish his food or leave. “Yeah. Maybe. I guess.”



FOOD:  

3.0 Stars

Standard Diner-fare through and through. And I mean that phrase quite literally.

PRICE: 

Student-Friendly

Despite it being South Beach, the prices are not too inflated. However, for the money, the quality of the ingredients leaves a wee bit to be desired.


AMBIENCE: 

It’s What’s Outside That Counts

Like much of SoBe, the ambience beats the substance. Sweet to eat in an authentic Diner car for certain.

SERVICE: 

The Best Part

Nice women. Nice men. Check plus. 

EAT OR SKIP: 

Skip

If you’re on South Beach and need (NEED) to go to a Diner, 11th St. is your choice. However, if you’re just looking for a great, cheap meal, go to Tap Tap. 



Remedy Diner - New York City, NY

Our boy, he of long limb and short hair, rises from slumber. Smacking mouth of terrible night-taste, he finds in his body a vicious hangover. Be it past-noon time of day or be it last night’s activities our boy is super-famished and needs bites. He must venture forth for sustenance, where the street heat will batter last night’s clothing in gusts of motor-hum.

In the NY sea of hard eye and black cloth our boy flows unnoticed. Parched in mouth and driving with fuel-starved leg he must travel far for nourishment. He does not relish this journey of foot and asphalt. But it is necessary. 

Hark, a female approaches.

Long glossy hair above tasseled boot, she wears the uniform of hip Brooklyn so-and-sos. Of what origin is this meeting, the whim of the city only knows.

“Hi” say she. Oh how lips of red smack in our young man’s eye.

“Oh,” say he, hands unable to find a correct spot. Of course, the origin of their first meeting our boy now remembers. At hip, LES bar (Pianos, mayhap?) last night, after passing in the doorway a time twice two many they had fallen to conversation. As her name connects with his mind her face connects with his heart or possibly something lower. Misha.

“What’s up? Greg, right?” say Misha.

“You got it...sister,” the production of said stupid phrase a consequence of embarrassment at unwashed hair + worry + attraction. Greg, our boy, recalibrates.

“Just heading out to grab a bite.” 

Lady responds sans effort. “Yeah?” Cocked hip squeezes heart of boy. “Where were you thinking?”

*DING DING DING*

Picture C/O Flickr-user Geoff Baron


The boy speaks true. Remedy Diner, of which he warbles praise. Diner of 24-hour joy. Featuring meal of hash + eggs (veal of homemade origin resting within), Burgers (hand-pressed), &c, &c. “'Top 5' Material, for sure,” say he. So many words of praise released at once that when boy finishes, the silence of street and foot rings harsh.

After pause of nervous length, “cool,” say she. Smooth, smiling face of hers expresses interest in tandem dining. Her cocked eyebrow an open invitation to invite. Oh how our boy's heart quails. The pounding of chest akin to tribal drum. He must take the true leap: the question of asking. The wonder if she is keen to accompany. He must query: will she join he? Simple words, but difficult -- so stubborn -- in coming.

Long time of passing as girl shifts and boy he fumbles for correctly -- no -- perfectly invitation.

“Ummm,” say she of shifting stance. “Well, enjoy the meal.”

“Yeah,” say he in fit of cowardice, “catch you later.” Boyheart shatters and drops into organs of lower position.

Girl, she walks away and boy curses himself as he does the same. How insignificant a question looks after the time to ask it has passed! Courage, curses he, a reserve that diminishes with greater need. A lout, a cur, a yellow-belly, and other such names he shouts internally on his journey to Houston and Norfolk. Children squeal on swings and aping-bars across the street. Cars hurrrr by and the world continues despite the crushing despair within the young man. 

At last, his destination appears at arm's length. With the opening of metallic door the clay-oven heat of street and brick is destroyed by AC interior and (capital t)Traditional Diner decor.


Now I'm not a religious man... BUT

Picture C/O Forgotten NY


The host (he of smiling face and forty [or more] years) seats our boy kindly. Though not empty, Remedy is also not full. Groups of mixed age, race and gender abound. Yonder, young child and younger parents sip at milkshakes of eye-widening volume. Beyant, a group of teens bow their heads in prayer of phone and text. Five more tables are filled with such melange of character and background. 

Yes, a fine and goodly crowd our boy would spy, were he not solely meditating on his own character flaws e.g. cowardice, lameness, loneliness.

Waiter approaches, water and utensils unleashed with gunslinger speed. 

“Waiting for anyone?” asks waiter, dark eyebrow raising, rippling forehead ridges in its upward push. 

“What?” say boy. “No.”

“Need time to think?” Boy say he does. Waiter stays.

“You know, it’s not worth worrying about,” say waiter, out of blueness.

“Huh?” say boy. Aloft, dense waiter-eyebrow stays; as if he is a knowing one.

“It’s always something or another with you,” say waiter.

“Me?”

“You kids, worrying about stuff.” Waiter shifts, stands square-at our boy. Speaks loud. “If I learned anything, it’s that there’s only one bad decision you can't take back: a face tattoo. So, just order some damn food." Waiter pauses, focuses. "What’s behind will stay there, and if it decides to jump back ahead... well, suck it up later.”


The pews of our lord and savory.

Picture C/O, terrifyingly, Google Street view


Unexpected, said sermon drops, as does waiter’s eyebrow. He departs.

Ponders on this, boy does. How much does he worry? Too much, think he. Girl will be around again, and if not said girl, other girl of more substance than simply fine attire and finer pout. Yonder milkshakes, notices he, look tantalizing.

Boy of muddled thought slowly becomes boy of clear head. Thinks not of female’s sun-dappled locks and crushing smile. Against seat of cool pleather his back slides, gaze tilting to look at ceiling of ubiquitous NYC tile. Inside a mind now low-tide calm, boy allows himself to enjoy the diner where so many good times have been spent. 

Waiter returns and the order is laid: California Omelette (mushrooms, avocado, pepper jack chee and tomats) with rye toast. “You know what,” say boy. “I’ll have a strawberry milkshake too.” Waiter approves. 

*~!*~~Praaaaaise~~*!~*

C/O Foodspotting.com member Viet Noms (sick handle, bra)


Meal arrives. Deliciousness achieved. Meal departs.

“Feel better?” wise waiter queries as check is laid down. Boy of previously troubled mind crinkles eyes and nods at waiter; waiter nods back with smiles.

You see, this is the vibe of Remedy. A magical spot where food and mood and ambience and price unite to fix what ails. Be they moral, physical or spiritual conundrums, Remedy’s extensive menu-choices -- filled with hand-crafted touches for taste-bud delight -- calm the busy mind.

And so we leave our young man as he has been before and will be again: enjoying the potent medicine from the clinic on the corner Houston and Norfolk. 



FOOD: 

4.0 Stars

  • A menu that is nothing less than a tour de force of classic diner fare. 

PRICE: 

First Job

  • For the money-sucking streets of New York, this is a wallet oasis. Reasonable for certain.

AMBIENCE: 

Back to the Future

  • As if plucked out of the 1950s and filled with modern-day time travelers. Traditional, not old. 

SERVICE: 

With Smiles

  • Of the many times I’ve frequented, service has been prompt and vigilant, 24 to the 7.

EAT OR SKIP: 

Eat

  • Did I stutter?



Maine Diner - Wells, ME

Pretend you’re a convicted felon. You’ve just been released. You’ve picked up your sparse belongings, and a tattooed thirty-something named Fuzz Nectar is waiting for you beyond the prison gates. His maroon, racing-striped Civic burps NOS-infused exhaust. It’s late October in Maine and the trees look like bug carcasses planted head-first. You bump fists with F.N. and he asks where to. You pull a five-year old cigarette from a case of Marlboro blacks, light it with an MMA-themed Bic and take a deep drag. The smoke brings your voice an octave lower and pleasantly stings your nostrils as you say “Maine Diner,” to the hastening western breeze. 

Suffice it to say, you and Fuzzington McKnuckleburg are about to get belly swole.


“Kneel, mortal.” 

Picture C/O Constant Contact


Maine Diner feels like your grandma’s house: the nice one. The waitresses dote on you. Your water is full before your cheeks meet the seat. Not only is the menu at the table, the place mats are also menus. For forty bucks, you could eat like Olde English royalty. You’re surrounded by men who look like they’re carrying triplets, and women who actually are. There are at least three people over the age of 100. And this is not only good, but right. Deeply right.

Fazz Nnnnectarino orders a coffee and a homemade pecan pie (Tricia [the wife] made him rock-hard scrambled eggs right before he picked you up). You order the Jim Nantz: a meal so unholy, like Voldemort, it’s broken into parts that -- initially -- must not be named.

It features the combo of Maine Diner’s 7-years-in-a-ding-dang-row award-winning seafood chowder. You, like the pro you are, do not make the mistake of ordering the clam chowder, which is a fine treat, but contains nowhere near the culinary, concussive force of the one and only Seafoo Chow. 


“A recipe that belongs in Fort Knox”

Picture C/O Road Food


The second part of the Jim Nantz is the choice of a cold or warm lobster roll. Oops, did I say lobster roll? I meant Liggity-iggity-izobster Riggity-ricky-ticky-tick-tock-tavvy-rizoolio.

You get the lobster roll cold with drawn butter on the side. Homemade Cole Slaw? A-hyes-pulleaze. Your stomach is licking its lips. And no, that’s not gross to contemplate, it’s transcendent.

The place is packed and its a Wednesday at two forty five. This is a diner where tourists feel like locals and locals feel like family. The decor is spartan. The tabletops appear to be linoleum. The ambience is part nostalgia-drenched Americana, part back-country cafeteria, part perfect.

The food is gone before it hits the table. Professor Fuzzlebung burps pecan. You lean back and smack your lips. Maine Diner is not a diner, as its chosen title would have you believe. It is both Maine and Diner incarnate. Where lobster and a snow-white ethnic landscape meet a quintessential, neckfat-producing, stick-to-your-guts-style dinerfeast.

You are not worthy.

Corporal Fussy Neck-tar pays for the whole deal (it’s your big day bra), and again he asks where to. You tell him to take you to Pam’s, where a 4.5 year old son whose hand you’ve only touched through an inch of prison glass awaits. The sun sneaks from behind a cloud and you light up another twig. Today is a good day. 

Life doesn’t begin at conception; it begins at Maine Diner.



OVERALL SCORE:

FOOD: 

4.5 Stars

Everything you want from a diner (homemade hashes, homemade pancakes, homemade everydingle) and lobster.

PRICE: 

Fair

Stuff yourself for under $10. Get a dinner that’s better than a warm hug from Mom for under $20. Or, man up and get seafood chowder, a lobster roll, a slice of warm blueberry pie (a la mode 4sho), and wash it all down with some crude (aka diner coffee) for about $30. Just perfection.

AMBIENCE:

Norman Rockwell

More American than Uncle Sam snorting a piping slice of apple pie from the Statue of Liberty’s cleavage.

SERVICE:

 Aunt’s Kitchen

Attentive service that reinforces the obvious: they care about getting you fed.

EAT OR SKIP: 

Eat

If you are a person and you are alive you should find a way to eat at Maine Diner.