Carryon Comfort Food

Inspired by a recommendation from Tom Lisk, I had lunch the other day at Carryon Comfort Food. From the red plastic signage to the "Hospitality Counselor" standing near the door, everything about the entrance and exterior gave me the feeling that I was in good, decent hands. A crowd of perhaps 300 people waited in the barn-like architecture of the "Appetite Depot" under glaring halogen lights. Luckily, the wait was not long, and a widescreen television entertained the guests with a documentary film, played at an impressively loud volume, about the history of Carryon. Finally, the hostess seated me. The menu, a touch screen set into the shellacked wooden table, was more user-friendly than most. My server appeared a few minutes later and offered me a non-alcoholic alkaline water, which I declined. Instead, I chose a plot-driven beverage titled "A Stroll in the Park." I demanded that the drink be brought to me in a mug with my monogram etched in the glass, however the waitron politely told me that would be impossible. The drink was, though, served to me in a bread cup, which pleased me. After my appetizer, the excellent fruit-leather plate, I was served the entree, the King's Ransom Platter. This amazing anthology of home cookin' was everything I've come to expect from the Carryon Comfort Food brand. From the Battered 'n' Splattered Pork Planks to the Low-Carb Hush Puppies, this kaleidoscope of flavor was nearly excruciatingly pleasurable. Now let's talk about dessert. The dessert menu itself was a work of art! While the freshly applied oil paint smeared a bit during handling, the menu was beautifully done. I chose the Decadent Rewards Ice Milk and was well-rewarded indeed! Though I ordered the chilly treat to be served to me on a 78 rpm record of "That's a Plenty!" as performed by the Suave Gents, it was merely delivered on a plain plate. Of course I sent it back. The Vera Vulture mascot character was sent to my table to placate me, but all the exaggerated hand gestures and head-shakings of someone in a vulture costume could not convince me that I was in anything but the culinary equivalent of an insane asylum. As I stalked out, the manager jogged at my side, peppering me with nonsensical questions. To make my point, before I walked out I grabbed a handful of toothpicks from the Take One bowl (for my replica of the wicker man). Overall, not a bad experience, but the presentation of the dessert was somewhat lacking. I give this restaurant (the term used advisedly) Two Parsley-Sprigs!

Hieronymo's

I've never been all that fond of the portmanteau word "brunch." I find it annoyingly cute. And why on earth, if you're going to combine the words "lunch" and "breakfast" (since I assume that's the derivation of this "word"), why not call it "leakfast"? Or spell it "leekfast" and include at least the name of a food in the darn thing? Despite my misgivings, I tried the "brunch" today at Hieronymo's, and I was not disappointed. "Hieronymo's mad againe," and I'm mad about brunch at Hieronymo's. Some have accused me of hubris. As a food critic, that is an occupational hazard second only to salmonella. But I feel that my personal hubris may have bitten me on the hindquarters this time. Because let me tell you, the brunch at Hieronymo's upset my expectations. It brought me to my knees, people. And made me feel oddly ashamed. Ashamed of myself for dismissing their brunch just because I think the name is silly. Maybe, after all, I am the silly one. No--mustn't think that way. But the brunch at Hieronymo's means many things. You can have an egg, say. What will you have the chef do with that particular egg? Maybe poach it. Maybe scramble it. Hard-boil it? No problem. Sunnyside up? Absolutely. Over easy? It can be done. Over hard? Hey, pal, it's what we do. So again, I am humbled. Hieronymo's has a clean, ski-lodge feel that sharpens my appetite like a saw. And so I ordered the egg. Now, I recommend Hieronymo's during the summer solstice, because the waitrons during that season do something very special. They have a way of balancing the egg that will truly astound you. I won't spoil it by saying just what it is they do, but once you see this performance, you will never ever forget it. I'll just leave it at that. Now what I like about Hieronymo's is that they're no fly-by-night eatery. They're in it for the long haul. They don't succumb to the latest fading food fads (anybody remember the Pet Lime?). Not at all. They serve classic cuisine in a classic way. No flavor-of-the-month chasers at Hieronymo's. No sir. And that gives you confidence as a diner. I don't mean a diner as in a type of restaurant, I mean rather "diner" as in "a person or persons dining." Just to clear that up. Ambiguity has no place in a food review. One thing I despise is an obscure restaurant review peppered with private references. A restaurant review must be a resonant review--that's my motto. Just in case you were wondering. Food nostalgia has its place, but I much prefer the timeless classicism of Hieronymo's. I mean, truly, must we keep trying to re-invent the cheese wheel? I don't look for the newfangled when I want to sink my fangs into a half-rack of ribs, say. Food is food. That's what it has been, and all it will always be. What it all boils down to is hunger and satisfaction. So call me simple. I believe in standards and I believe in staples. For me, the perfect restaurant would serve milk, bread, meat, and cheese. That's it. Everything else is just a variation on those themes. Can you think of a great entree that isn't just a mixture of those four? Didn't think so. I'm kidding. That is absolutely not my view. Food must be complex. It must be interesting. I want food that is a synthesis of every cuisine known to humankind. I want every spice in the rack to be tossed in--and the wooden rack too (don't knock it till you've tried it). When I dine, I want it to be intense. The meal should be made up of adrenaline, extreme emotions, reptilian intensity. Erotic insanity. Transgression. Give me a transgressive dish of grilled vegetables any time. I want the soup to crawl across the desert of my appetite like a sidewinder. I want the mozzarella sticks to escort me to a very dark realm. I want the pepper grinder to be positively nihilistic! That's what I'm looking for in a meal, and that is precisely what Hieronymo's offers me. And so that's where I will return for brunch, for lunch, for a midnight snack, even! Hieronymo's is the place for you. It's like a sweet dream where you're holding out your outspread hands below an avalanche of cash. It's that astonishing, and it's that wonderful. Because at Hieronymo's, they aren't just about the bottom line. They actually are trying to create a memorable food ordeal for you to go through until you've changed as a human being. So try Hieronymo's. Don't complain that they aren't the typical plastic theme restaurant. They have other things are their mind, other things on their menu. Things like summer solstice eggs. And stunning spearmint pudding. And wait till you try the mock guacamole! And so, brought low by a place called Hieronymo's, I humbly give it five--yes, five--solid yolks.

Pork Belleez

The eyes of the waitron at Pork Belleez had that gripping, ancient mariner-style intensity that one always looks for in a server. When the waitron said, "I'll be taking care of you this evening," I felt like I was in some sort of hand-cart being sent down a railroad track into a spooky cave. That's when I knew I was going to like Pork Belleez and everything about it. If you haven't been to Pork Belleez, you may think that it's an eatery devoted to pork and other pig products--far from it! As the waitron explained, "We're about more than just pork. Our mission statement is wider than that, thank you very much." A field of crackling electricity hummed in the air between the laser glare of the waitron and my own friendly, otter-like orbs. If the food were only half as riveting as the waitron's gaze, why, Pork Belleez was going to be quite a thrill ride! Whether it was madness or just dedication, the eyes of the waitron had me primed for a fantastic Pork Belleez experience. The ambiance at Pork Belleez could be summed up as unpretentious, casual fare, much like the snack bar at the roller rink of my youth. I remember gliding gracefully up to the counter as the top-40 hits of the mid-seventies breathed from the ceiling. The menu board was made up a plastic sheet into which black and red letters could be affixed. I don't recall precisely what I had that evening nearly 35 years ago (I mean, really!) but it was most probably a hot dog of some sort. And that's the kind of feel you get from Pork Belleez. It would be blasphemous to compare the place to high-end eateries like Simply Slop or Food Ghost, and so let me say it brings back that "hot dog in a roller rink" feeling we all know so well. In my 2009 round-up I mentioned this restaurant's delightful mascot, Uncle Pig, who roams the aisles of the eatery like a pig-shaped squeak toy the size of a small hut. Delightful! And as he walks, Uncle Pig indeed gives an incredibly loud and forceful squeak with each hoofstep. With a chef's hat propped on his head, the good Uncle is always ready with a grunt and a wave for Pork Belleez patrons. Wave back at Uncle Pig, now! And get ready to chow down, because your entree has arrived. Pork Belleez has a tadpole bisque to die for! I used the convenient one-size-fits-all elastic strap to put on my Belleez bib and dug in. Next, I enjoyed dessert, a mesmerizing tray of ice cubes made from that wonderful lemon-lime Squirt beverage. Now, I am not known as the warmest human being in the solar system. I will have no need for cryogenic freezing at the time of my demise, let us say. And leave it at that. But there's something about Pork Belleez that just gives me a warm, amber glow. And I cannot for the life of me explain why! Ah, weary traveler, when you see that Pork Belleez logo on the exit sign on the interstate, pull over, why don't you. Perhaps you are an exhausted rock star, in need of sustenance. Let that tour bus find its way into the parking lot of this comforting restaurant. Drop a few ashes into the black plastic ash-receptacle near the front door if you're so inclined. If this is your first time at Belleez, I truly envy you. What a thrill to step into this pork goldmine for the very first time, before the jaded season falls upon you. And I can speak of the wonders of this place until I'm blue in the face (hmm...that might be interesting!) but I sometimes doubt whether these reviews I write have ever inspired one single person to visit any of the fabulous bistros that I have judged to be the greatest of their kind. Oh, well. All I can do is say, "Hey. It's a good restaurant. It's called Pork Belleez. I really think you're going to like it. You know, I was there the other night and I gave it a pretty good review. You don't even have to remember what you ordered last time, because the waitrons take notes!" Pork Belleez, I give you a well-deserved Five Snouts!

Kerplunk's

If you've read any of my reviews, you know that I don't indulge in so-called "confessional-school restaurant criticism." That's just not my style. But in the case of Kerplunk's, I find that I must "go autobiographical" on you and begin with a personal anecdote. I hope you will forgive this foray into the lignin-free scrapbook of my mind. Kerplunk's is not a restaurant I can be in the least bit objective about, because it was at Kerplunk's that I once had a very upsetting experience that completely tints if not taints how I see this perhaps fine eatery. For as a young person dining at Kerplunk's, I was one evening cast into a state of mind-splintering terror by this seemingly innocent dining establishment. I had recently been awarded the "Food Critic Prodigy" award by the local diner theater (yes, not dinner but diner theater), the Gasp and Swallow. The award ceremony was being held at Kerplunk's. If you have never been to Kerplunk's, realize that the restaurant, with its marble floors and ceilings, potted palms, wind machine, and ultra-violet novelty sculptures, has an atmosphere that can't be matched for nerve thrills. And it was here that I was brought to be honored as a brilliant young food critic in the making. So far, so good. Seated at the head of the table, and cajoled into wearing a deeply embarrassing mortarboard cap with tassel, I endured the forced "Hip, Hip, Hooray!" chant (did anyone ever really DO that?) and the rounds of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow," a song which is sung on television and movies to avoid royalty payments to the estate of the composer of "Happy Birthday to You" and for no aesthetic reason whatsoever(for more on royalty-avoiding music, please see my review of The Bitterest Gumpdrop). The waitron arrived, and I was told by Dr. Gopp, the director of the diner theater, to order anything I liked, within reason. By this point, the eerie ambiance of the eatery was working on me, and I began to notice a distinct lack of ventilation in the dining room. This paucity of ventilation, combined with an oppressive mildew-sweetness, caused a sudden light-headedness to strike me. Glancing at the cringe-worthy "kiddie menu" I'd been handed, complete with a line drawing of a an elf eating a cheeseburger (as if!), I felt the sweet smothering smell overwhelm me and--my vision went black! I jumped back from the table to keep from sinking into that ink-dark whirlpool of unconsciousness. Dr. Gopp looked at me as though I were mad, as did the diner theater's publicity manager, Miss Honing-Stone. "I've just had the sensation of fainting or swooning," I urgently communicated to the pair. Dr. Gopp accused me of feigning the passing out as a means of gaining attention (as the guest of honor, would that have been at all necessary?). The awards dinner, in short, was a fiasco. So now, returning to Kerplunk's as a professional restaurant critic, I find that my detachment is strained by a bitter memory that still rankles. But as happens so often upon returning to a place of adolescent memory, the emotional charge is gone. I am free to enjoy (or not enjoy) Kerplunk's for what it is (or is not--or perhaps merely what it aspires to be). First, I must say that the ventilation problem has been completely taken care of. Perhaps the recent addition of ventilation shafts and open windows has played a part in this improvement. The decor is still the same--walking into Kerplunk's is like walking onto a creepy 1930's movie-musical set in time for the filming of a production number set in some movie-director's vision of heaven. The food is adequate. I've always liked French toast made with rye bread, but I've never precisely loved it. And that's the kind of place Kerplunk's will always be. Sure, a plate full of radishes is good food, but it isn't great food, and therein lies the problem with Kerplunk's. Aside from any unpleasant youthful memories that the place may evoke, it's the less-than-impressive fare that keeps me from going back. While the waitrons, who entertain with hilarious jokes and riddles, are often delightful, Kerplunk's is in the end, nothing special. And so, through the lens of painful memory, I award--that word again!--this eatery called Kerplunk's a paltry three gasps, three swallows.

Simply Slop

At an eatery called Simply Slop, I ordered a breaded pork chop, with a side of waxed fries dyed with various dyes, till I ordered the waitron to stop! You can stop chuckling now. Simply Slop is the "feel good restaurant" of 2010. I said it, you believe it, and that settles it. All kidding aside, you just never know what the culinary innovators at Slop have up their sleeves. Multi-colored French fries? Sure, why not. As their commercial, sung by that sort of singing group that usually does local carpet jingles, goes: "Simply, simply slop...it's the place! Wow!" Even the tablecloths are astonishing--they look like they're sculpted out of butter. And the waitrons speak through some kind of voice-distortion device that really gives the dining experience an edgy vibe I know of at no other restaurant. I want people to really feel the excitement of Simply Slop, but I fear that my review may not be enough to convince people to make that journey to an admittedly unattractive side of town to "live the slop" as we fans say. But please visit this establishment. Please. You'll like it. Really. It's the best restaurant. Ever. The food is so good it's ludicrous. The cotillion-script sign in faint green states "Simply Slop" and what could be simpler? I want you to relax right now and picture yourself walking through one of those giant concrete frogs near a mercury pond. Now see yourself in a gleaming guttering bubble, one of its sides dangerously close to losing tension. The bubble wants to protect you from bad food, and so it guides you lovingly to one of the worst roads in town, a strip with incomprehensible traffic. It wants you to open the metal and glass door to Simply Slop. It guides you into the lobby. You see a tarnished brass post with a dark brown sign with gold lettering that states: "We Must Wait to be Seated." And you wait for the server. We feel that you humans, stumbling on your benighted paths, need but to sample the unhydrated Tang salad with crumbled pieces of Chicken-in-a-Biscuit crackers, or the flamingo chowder, or the mush croquets, for you to attain enlightenment. We feel you are dwelling in illusion until you taste what Slop has to offer, the nectar of peace on a blue plate. Sit yourself right down at the "Slop Slab." Start with the petrified truffles and then work your way down the "food chain" till you've sampled every delight on offer. You will love the decor. The high walls are lined with wooden trellises to which are pinned giant silky wreaths and paintings of mournful comic drunkards. Malfunctioning portable black-and-white televisions are set up on each table to keep us occupied before the first course arrives. Thoughtfully, a roll of aluminum foil is provided for better reception. With a tingle of anticipation, you page through the suede menu, looking for that perfect liverwurst soup served in a hollowed-out pineapple. And it is there...it is all there waiting for you at Simply Slop. I give it infinite stars, my friends. Infinite stars.....

The Bitterest Gumdrop

A first! Tonight, I am transmitting a "live" restaurant review. Yes, I am writing this message direct from the eatery that I am reviewing. Never say that I am behind the times, as I sit here in the Bitterest Gumdrop with my laptop computer. Looking around me, I see the rummage sale decor that gives "the Drop" its bohemian ambiance, and I am well pleased. The fanciful lamps, the brown scratchy curtains, the exposed wiring--it all screams "beatnik eats" and that is always a good diversion from serious cuisine. I must say that I was quite impressed with the fare available here. I will get to that later. I want to mention something I alluded to in my awards for 2009, and that is the "royalty-avoiding almost hits" that pour from the speakers here. It takes a certain kind of genius to pen a tune that sounds almost exactly like a top-ten hit but not enough that an attorney won't give it the seal of approval. Right now, I'm enjoying a version of Neil Diamond's "I Am...I Said" that is teasingly recognizable yet oh-so-different. I love it! I think I may even love it more than the original (heresy!). If you know anything about me, you know that I consider "I Am...I Said" to be my personal anthem, so for me to say that a song that skirts travesty and rip-off may even be more loved by me is wondrous beyond the imagining. It's good enough to appear in a TV commercial as a jingle--I'm not kidding! And so, soaking in the "beatnik generation" atmosphere and hearing a delightful variation on my life anthem, I await the arrival of my waitron. As an appetizer, I ordered the Decorative Cabbage--and ah, speak of the angel, for here is my waitron with the cabbage, lovingly displayed in a huge terracotta pot. The cabbage has a perfect purple hue and as I unroot it from the dirt, I'm amazed at the "eye ecstasy" it grants me. After gobbling this decorative delight, I am now ready for the entree. And do you believe it, but the attentive waitron is at tableside with an open-face cottage cheese and graham cracker sandwichette with a side of sarcastic Funyons stuffed with anchovies. Perfect! I'm liking this place more and more by the minute. The wonderful waitrons are skidding around the waxed floors of the room dressed in early-1960's artists smocks, and I couldn't be more charmed. On to dessert. I've selected the maple seahorses, and what a great decision that has turned out to be! As I savor these decadent candy creatures, I wallow in the realization that there is nothing bitter about my experience here at the Bitterest Gumdrop. And so I heartily commend "the Drop" to you with my highest commendation--Five Freaking Decorative Cabbages!

Food Ghost

This afternoon I dined at Food Ghost. This eatery, housed in a Gothic revival mansion, gave me one of my least disappointing culinary experiences in the past few days. Now, those of you in my personal circle of friends know that I have many hilarious "restaurant horror stories" to share, but never before have "horror stories" and "restaurant" mixed in such an agreeable fashion. At Food Ghost, everything wonderful about fear and food reaches its ecstatic apotheosis. A horrible knell thrills the air when you pull on the purple velvet cord at the front door. The wooden slat of the wrought iron-encaged "speakeasy" slides open and your maitre d's paranoid, marmoreal eyes shift until you state the password and he allows you to enter this amazing pageant of spooky food. The eerie Victorian decor and funereal organ music set the proper tone. And the food itself! Bliss on a tablecloth. Wait, that sounds creepy. But let it stand, because Food Ghost is THE place for creep cuisine. Thankfully, the Food Ghost folks have more imagination than to offer "terror-themed" provisions. The waitron served me an astounding shark medallion enrobed in jalapeno jelly and japes of chocolate nonpareils. Afterwards, I went mad for the heart-pounding excitement of the dessert--yes, it was my favorite--a Brown Mule. If you haven't had a Brown Mule, then I pity you. I mean it--you're pathetic. But, like someone who has never read these reviews before, you are in for a treat. I must say the choice of beverages was excellent, and I was surprised and intrigued by the glass of "Dr. Perky" the waitron insisted I must sample. I wound up buying an entire case of the stuff! And as you know, I just don't do that. A wonderful thing about Food Ghost is how each dining area has its own theme. There's a Music Room, a Portrait Gallery, a Scullery, a Trussing Chamber, and a number of other fabulous interior choices. I dined in the Portrait Gallery, and found the portraits truly terrifying. For they aren't paintings--far from it! Food Ghost features huge framed color photographs of Victorian-costumed customers of Food Ghost. What a hoot! After dessert, I was taken into the Photographer's Studio and sat for my Food Ghost portrait. I was dressed as some mystique-saturated Victorian magician--how appropriate! I am proud to say that my portrait now hangs among the many others in the gallery. What could be spookier? From the damp, chilly atmosphere of the dining room, to the clammy demeanor of the waitron, there is something at Food Ghost to delight the most jaded food fan. By the end of your meal, the ghost of your dining experience will linger in a not unpleasant way. And so I unreservedly give Food Ghost an enthusiastic Four and One Half Groans!

Goofball's Comedy Pit

Those of you who are my devoted followers know that my signature sign-off line is the wonderful "If it tastes funny, don't forget to laugh!" So it may be a bit surprising to you to learn that in all actuality, I don't think comedy and cuisine mix very well. Mix very well? Like oil and vinegar--I mean, oil and water, since oil and vinegar do mix, depending on the quality of the oil and the vintage of the vinegar of course. Anyway. Tasteless comedy and tasteless food can combine into a living hell for the food enthusiast. Just from a public safety point of view, if the comedy is at all funny--which is doubtful--you have an instant choking hazard on your hands. And as you'll recall from an earlier installment, the Heisman Trophy Maneuver or whatever is not the most pleasant experience to undergo at your favorite dining establishment. I don't know who came up with the idea of a comedy restaurant, but this was a huge blunder on the scale of the design of the Edsel--or, if Miss Marianne Moore had had her way, the Utopian Turtletop. Long story. So I was not looking forward to, in fact I was dreading, my visit to, ahem, Goofball's Comedy Pit. I knew that I would be visiting an eatery that would be degrading to the human spirit in every way imaginable. Now, when you think comedy, you think clowns--that's how trite the thinking of the Goofball's corporate offices is, because the entire place is decked out like some kind of ludicrous clown palace. I cringed mentally and I cringed physically when I saw the horrifying stripes on the walls and knew that we all were going to be put into a comedy frame of mind whether we wanted to or not. The hostess, depressingly enough, was dressed in a top hat and tails like some kind of ringmaster or ringmistress or something. "Welcome to Goofball's, goofy guy!" she said in what she assumed (incorrectly) to be a fetching and insinuatingly sly voice. I was seated at a stool at a high table like the kind you see in the lower airport hot-dog stands. One of the legs of the table happened to be missing its foot thingy, so I was forced to fold up an old newspaper to stop its queasy wobbling. The waitron, thankfully dressed not as a clown but in a 1970s pizza parlor cabaret outfit, complete with bowler, appeared after an eternity and offered me a drink. I asked for a soda water. I wasn't going to let alcohol fool me into thinking there was anything amusing about the food or the comedy in this place. Let me report that the soda water, served in a smudged tumbler, was flat as a flat-earther's earth. Nary a bubble was to be seen. The menu looked like it had been reproduced on a mimeograph machine. Each dish was named after an embarrassing Las Vegas comedian. I wanted a hole to open up in the earth and swallow me as I ordered the Norm Crosby Crawdads with a side of Shecky shrimp. The Crawdads tasted like dried-up, rubbery gelatin dessert, and the shrimp were mealy and insolent. While I am completely qualified to judge comedy, I am not willing to overdwell on the so-called comic whose pitiful, desperate quips oppressed me during my stay at Goofball's. Amazingly enough, a laugh track emanated from a speaker in the ceiling during his act. This man, who calls himself simply "The Joke Guy," was convinced that he was hilarious. He did not convince me. I will give you one sample of his "humor," then I will have to take a nap. "Have you ever noticed how people don't talk in elevators? What's up with that. Is there some kind of rule about the dimensions of a room that means there's no talking allowed there? I mean, think about it. Nobody talks to people in closets. I don't do that, you don't do that. Nobody does that. So there's this square footage rule about rooms. It's crazy." I will leave you with that wit that sparkled even less than my flat, dead soda water in the hell known as Goofball's Comedy Pit. My rating? One rubber chicken.

End of the Year Restaurant Round-up: Best of 2009

It's that time of year again. Time to sit back smugly and take stock of the past year. I mean, this year--the year now ending, the year gone by--well, almost. When a nihilistic chill goes through one these evenings, what better way of comforting oneself than making a list? And so, my End of the Year Round-up.

1. Best Menu Font: Speaking of nihilistic chill, hands down my fave font is the grunge inspired lettering on the menu at Flannel's Cafe'. This edgy, "Gen-X"-style alphabet takes my breath--and my appetite--away.

2. Best Toothpick Dispenser: You're joking, right? If there's a receptable devoted to objects made for dislodging food particles in a restaurant somewhere, I don't want to hear about it.

3. Best Background Music: The royalty-avoiding "almost hits" played at the Bitterest Gumdrop are always appreciated.

4. Best Overlooked Crumbs: I like my eatery to be human. And that means I want there to be that little area where the roomba forgot to suck dirt. Goofball's Comedy Pit, you know who you are.

5. Best Mascot: The squeak-toy-inspired Uncle Pig at Pork Belleez is my favorite of the many mascots now roaming the aisles in dining establishments nowadays.

6. Best Gift Shop: The gag items offered at Food Ghost complement the fare.

7. Best Slaw: The piquant, festive, confetti-like slaw at Hieronymo's is still going strong.

8. Best Posted Warnings: The quaint "No Vulgar Talk or Filth" signs at Kerplunk's are a little scary--but in a good way.

9. Best credit-card folder: I know my plastic is secure when I place it into the professional guest-check presenter at Golly's.

10. Best "Please Wait to be Seated" Post. The tarnished brass post at Simply Slop never fails to please.

* * * * *

Well, there you have. Another top-ten list to inspire some better choices next year, or just to soothe yourself when those pane-rattling winds are wailing. Till next time, remember--if it tastes funny, don't forget to laugh!

The Peppermint Outpost

As you know, I have always been of at least two minds about the concept of ample parking. While it does prevent my driver from having to circle eternally around the grounds like some airliner that cannot land, a lot with numerous empty spaces does not give me much confidence in a restaurant's quality. And so I was pleased to see that the five-level parking deck of the Peppermint Outpost was filled to capacity. The reflective sign above the gate (complete with candystriped arm--how clever they are!) proclaimed: "The Peppermint Outpost--where the palate cleanser IS the meal!" I found that charming beyond belief--or else utterly nauseating, I can't decide yet. On swiping my food critic's badge, my driver brought me into the deck and dropped me off at the steel door of the Peppermint Outpost. Thankfully, the interior to the restaurant is less thuggish than the exterior. A wintry decor dominated, complete with fur-lined ice skates hanging from the silvery walls. I was graciously seated by myself at a long table in a conference room where I could dine in peace. The waitron, Miss Figalilly, plumped a comfortable down pillow before me, upon which she then set a clock-sized peppermint candy, different in degree more than kind from the wonderful Brach's peppermint Star Brites of my childhood. I was given a set of mineralogical tools to break the mint up into bite-sized pieces. This was no pillow-shaped mint on my pillow! The next course was a wonderful peppermint bark, laid out beautifully in strips on--this time--an actual plate or dish of some kind. The bark was a bit dry and stringy, but I choked only once or twice, and the manager, Mr. Everett, was quite accomplished in the Heisman trophy maneuver, or whatever. As a palate cleanser to the palate cleanser, in infinite regress, so to speak, and in keeping with the arboreal leitmotiv, I was served some wonderful spearmint jelly leaves washed down by a gentle rainfall of herbal peppermint tea. While I had never enjoyed hot tea dispensed from a showerhead before, I did find the experience remarkable. And so, overall, I am happy to report that the Peppermint Outpost fully earns a grade of Five Ice-Blue Mints!

Cow Patty's Homestyle Steam-it-Teria

I'm afraid Jacques Wool went off the rails with this recommendation. As a Food Snob, I believed--once--his taste to be impeccable. But in this case I'm afraid that his Restaurant Snooper-Scope is way off. And this saddens. Can the transcendentally snooty Jacques Wool have sent me on some kind of culinary snipe hunt? I put on my snazziest suit tonight and made my way through the fluorescent green glow on Snippety Street to the Steam-it-Teria. Let me state that I was not impressed with the exterior of the restaurant. It looked just like the outside of some weird psychiatric clinic. Not the kind of place I would normally dine. A sneaky pete lay in the gutter nearby. I can only describe the decor inside the place as bizarre. A color television in the corner was blaring some weird movie musical from the late 1960's. The atmosphere of the place was more like a junk shop than a place for fine dining. However, at the time I still believed that Jacques Wool could make no mistakes, and so I endured the decor and stood by the hostess' lectern (I have no other word for it). Screwed into the front of the lectern, gold cursive letters made of some metal read: "We Must Wait to be Seated." The hostess said, "Just one?" Have you ever noticed that hostesses always say "just one"? I think the "what a loser" subtext in the word "just" is clear as crystal. The hostess brought me to my card table and I waited. Did people ever actually play cards at card tables? It seems that people play cards at dining tables. And eat at card tables. At least that's always been my impression. Soon, the waitron appeared. "Here's the menu," he said, "and I can give you a sneak preview--" If you know me at all, you know how enraged I was at that cute little turn of phrase. Sneak preview. "--of our specials." He went on to tell me about the "astounding Sneezeweed Salad" which I foolishly went ahead and ordered. The waitron brought me a drink called The Snooze in a snifter. When it was time for my salad, he stood at my side and chopped it with a snickersnee. Jacques Wool, when you recommended this place to me, were you just being jocular? Zero Parsley Sprigs.

The Cat Drag Inn

Knowing my love of theme restaurants, Jacques Wool recommended the Cat Drag Inn. "If you want an eatery that's all about the cat, then this is the place for you," Jacques said. The Cat Drag Inn is Inn-credible! First, the decor. If you love the black cats featured in Victorian advertisements, then you will love the Inn, since the walls are decorated with black cats selling soap, breakfast foods, and tonics. Amazingly authentic Animatronics kitties sit in recessed areas in the walls, purring and miaou-ing. Sometimes they even hiss! I found that out when I attempted to pet one whose tail was switching. The music played in the restaurant is also tremendous and unbelievable! Among the tunes I heard were a charming version of Leroy Anderson's "Waltzing Cat" and a lively rendition of "Zez" Confrey's "Kitten on the Keys." The Animatronics kitties danced in time to the number. And the employees' uniforms were feline finery! Leopard and leonine leotards galore. The hostess, in a black-cat leotard, brought me to my table near a window where I enjoyed the view of a giant alabaster cat's head sculpture. Soon my waitron arrived and I ordered a cup of Abyssinian Blend coffee and a bowl of foliage. The coffee is marvelous--smooth but with a little bite! Jacques Wool had told me, "When you are at the Cat Drag Inn you must have the foliage! I want you to start living like a human being, man!" The foliage is tender and a great source of chlorophyll. Also, I want to mention that I like to read while I'm eating, and I decided to take a copy of "Rate My Cocoa" by Storch with me to the Inn. The cat's-eye lamp cast down a green glow that was the perfect accompaniment to Storch's verse. If you're looking for a feline-themed restaurant with an encyclopedic menu; if you're looking for out-of-this-world decor and employee uniforms; if you're looking for a pleasant table with green lighting to peruse a volume of Storch's verses, then the Cat Drag Inn may very well be for you! I give it Three Catnip Sprigs!

Pho Fur

I fondly recall the buffets of my youth, and the cardboard signs that hung above the tables. "All You Can Eat" they stated, though that vulgar promise through the years was refined into "All You Care to Eat." Suffice it to say, Pho Fur is a buffet of the "All You Can Eat" not the "All You Care to Eat" style. And that's my style. Once again it was Jacques Wool who commended this particular bistro to me. Leaning back in his chair, Jacques puffed on his stogie and remarked, "There are buffets and then there are buffets. Pho Fur is a veritable smorgasbord. You simply cannot think of it as a buffet. It is impossible. It is simply impossible." And so I found myself standing in front of the smorgasbord wondering what on earth to try first. One container held nothing but dried pear slices. Of course I piled my plate high with these dainties. One of the waitrons growled at me for reaching in with my bare hands, but when I explained that the tongs looked unsanitary, he quickly apologized, sheepishly. I next applied a fine mint drizzle to the pear slices, then topped it off with some flavor flakes from the flake shaker. Jacques Wool had cried out, "A feast fit for a monarch!" And of course he was correct. I set my plate down into the tiny stream that carried it to my table--a nice feature, one that I'd never seen before. After finishing off the tasty slices, I returned to the dessert area to create a dessert mountain. Jacques Wool again: "The desserts are not children's party favors! You must not go in there with those thoughts. That is not what Pho Fur has ever been about!" Wool pounded the table and his ashtray jumped into the air, scattering the ash that protruded and extended from the tip of his nauseating cigar. "We are talking the finest smorgasbord in the region, and you are treating it like a convenience store! What are you thinking!" Disgusted, Jacques glared at me in silence for fifteen minutes. With his admonition in mind, I selected a number of desserts from the buffet, starting with the chocoholic waffles, the marzipan circus replica, and the cotton-candy tumbleweed. The words of Jacques Wool bounced around in my head as I once again set my plate into the servant stream. "Heck, this is only the most important cantina known to humanity! And you talk about snacks. Snacks!" Though I had said nothing at all about snacks, I knew better than to contradict Jacques when he was going into one of his rants. The dessert nudged against the edge of the shore and I lifted it to my table, dripping bright. And for the first time in the history of my vocation as Food Reviewer, I give a restaurant five--not four, or three, but five!--Sprigs of Parsley.

Nothing But Ears

Another Jacques Wool recommendation. The wounded sign with moldy edges hung above the door. Nothing but Ears. At first the name made me a little queasy. But when Jacques Wool speaks, I'm all ears, so I rattled the locked door, knocked with my knuckles, banged with my fist, pressed down on the doorbell, and pounded the door-knocker for at least an hour. An attractive plastic clock in the window read 2 O'clock and said Will Be Back. If it hadn't been for the estimable M. Wool's glowing endorsement coursing through me like endorphins, I would have orphaned my shadow on the doorstep. However, 2 O'clock came around, and I was let into the Nothing but Ears eatery, not knowing what to expect. The place was charming and quaint, much like a colonial inn. The hostess was, I believe, a ghost. She seated me at the long wooden table and handed me the menu. I was apprehensive about reading the menu, as the "nothing but ears" name disturbed me to no end. I expected something horrible. Thankfully,though, the menu consisted of dishes made from ears of corn, as well as that pasta known as orrechia (ears). And so, once again, the images of my horrible fears were replaced by a scene that was quiet and ordinary and harmless and still. "I'll have the orrechia," I told the ghost. "Also, some ears of corn." The ghost vanished in a whirling rope of smoke. Soon a charger of pasta and corn appeared before me. My cellphone played "Funeral March of the Marionette." I picked it up and saw Monsieur Wool's moniker on the caller ID. Wool was chortling. "And so how are you enjoying Nothing but Ears? Is it not the most astounding cafeteria in the region?" I shook my head. "You tricked me, Jacques. I was expecting some kind of creep's chophouse. Instead, here I am in the middle of some haunted colonial inn. And I never knew corn and pasta were such good bedfellows," I quipped. "Did you check out the mural?" Jacques said. I looked behind me and saw that the wall was painted to depict a man in a powdered wig and some kind of colonial tuxedo holding back a velvet curtain. Behind the curtain was row upon row of cornstalks. "That's my kind of art," I told Jacques. He laughed like a dog barking. "Your taste generally runs to lack-blight posters, my friend." After I canceled my phone call with Jacques I finished my meal, paid the tab and tipped the ghost, then walked out into the privileged twilight, nothing but ears, as they say in the restaurant biz. Or at least they do now. Nothing but parsley sprigs.

Grackle Inn

I often dream about the entrances to buildings. I suppose that's why in my restaurant reviews I've often mentioned the entrances and exteriors. The Grackle Grill, another Tom Lisk recommendation, has an exterior that struck me like a nightmare. The place, a cinderblock shed, seemed so obsolete that I couldn't imagine it ever being new. I stood beneath the canvas awning of alternating dark and light green stripes and smelled the harsh concrete dust as I peered through the palm-print palimpsest-smeared window at the diner within. A solitary figure stood behind the counter. Behind him ranged numerous metal kettles, vats, steamers, sinks, griddles, skillets, and grills. The counterman looked at me with a catatonic smirk. I sat down at one of the spinning barstools, stopped it from spinning, and looked through a menu. I looked at the cover of the menu. It depicted a grackle, but oddly enough it wasn't a generalized cartoon or drawing of the bird, but rather a snapshot of a particular grackle. "This your first time at the Grackle?" the counterman said. "Yeah, " I answered. "Is this your first time?" The counterman chuckled as though I'd been kidding. "Well, some would say so." His eyes were a weird artificial color, like cotton candy syrup. He said, "I see you got the menu there. That's ol' Hackle the Grackle on the cover. He was my pet." The thought of this catatonic counterman having a pet grackle disturbed me, so I asked him to recommend something. He said, "Well, the Grackle Crackle is what most folks get." I read the description of the entree. A scoop of ice milk dropped into a cup of seltzer water. Was that the best this place could offer. "I thought this was a grill," I stated. Counterguy said, "The grill gets shut down at noon. You need to be an early bird to eat at the Grackle." A bell above the door jingled. A customer, a man in a smoking jacket, entered. He cackled, then sat down in a booth. "Afternoon, Mr. Draught," the counterman said. He looked at me and said, "That was the Grackle Cackle. When you enter this establishment, you're expected to do that cackle if you want service." How was I supposed to know that? Time stretched on. The counterman once again had that faraway look combined with the smug smirk. I slipped my spoon into the Grackle Crackle, which was nothing more than a glorified seltzer float, and looked over at Mr. Draught who sat reading the local newspaper, The Daily Spackle. When I left, I left a tip. Not the biggest tip I ever left in my life--that's a whole other story--but not the smallest one, either. Before this narrative withers, let me record that I gave the Grackle Grill a rating of Three Parsley Sprigs.

The Used Food Intranet Cafe'

When I mentioned to Tom Lisk's friend Jacques Wool that I was working on a review of L. Green Siena's booklet "The Used Food Restaurant," Jacques said, "You simply must pay a visit to the Used Food Intranet Café! It is the used food eatery in the Southeast!" Bowled over by Jacques' enthusiasm, I immediately ran the sixteen blocks to the place he'd recommended so highly. I'm happy to report that Jacques did not steer me wrong. The Used Food Intranet Café is a marvel. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the biggest fan of the whole "used food" concept, but the The Used Food Intranet Café knows how to prepare and serve previously-enjoyed comestibles so you wouldn't even know the difference. And the intranet access! Incredible. Because it's intranet, and not internet, access, you don't have to worry about being distracted with some irrelevant, timewasting website. Instead, you explore the world of The Used Food Intranet Café! Puzzles, quizzes, games, job applications, message boards, and more--it's as though the outside world didn't exist, which for me is the main draw of a dining establishment. Let me describe the setting. Picture yourself walking (or running) down a sidewalk in the hot sun, on a stiflingly boring afternoon. Up ahead, to your right, is a strip mall. In the window of one of the shops is a generic Open sign. Above the door of the white building is painted the name of the restaurant in block letters. Enticed, almost seduced, by this exterior you stagger into the canteen. Rows of blunt tables with laptops greet your eye. On plastic trays rest paper plates covered with indistinguishable pureed victuals. No customers. You choose a table, choose a laptop, and eat gratefully what has been put before you. My meal was hardly tasty, but I learned from the nutrition guide on the laptop (and remember, these laptops have been glued to the tables with Elmer's glue!), the food mounds are injected with vitamins and minerals. After a few sizzling quizzes, I grew thirsty. Luckily, a stainless steel sink with a spray nozzle waited invitingly, as though it had been placed there just for my refreshment. I returned to my table, had a few more bites to eat, registered with the Used Food Maniacs club, and ran my credit through the self-waitron near the door. Overall, the kind of civilized dining experience that is so rare today. I give the Used Food Intranet Café four pureed Parsley Sprigs!