If as Ernest Hemingway once averred, morality is what you feel good after and immorality is what you feel bad after, then the steak-fried Chicken Steak-Fried Chicken XL at Wag Nabbit's is immoral--because after eating this entree I felt very bad indeed. The thing is still squatting in my guts like a granite curling stone. And I still can't tell you whether it was beef or chicken. The title completely disoriented me. I think it's a steak-fried chicken-steak, or a chicken-fried steak-fried steak-chicken, but I can't tell you. All I know about this aporia on a platter is that I'm still suffering from ingesting it. When I close my eyes I see it spinning eternally on some weird potter's wheel.
Wag Nabbit's is one of those plastic, Stepford Dives-type places that have absolutely no character. I guess they tried to lend the place some character by making a dish that was completely inedible. Well, if that's their idea of character, then I'll take bland soullessness, because I don't like to feel the way I'm feeling right now.
I don't suppose you know what it's like to have this kind of meal taking up residence in your stomach. No, you don't have to eat at places like Wag Nabbit's--because you aren't a food critic! There. I've said it. Because you're not a food critic, you get to choose the places you want to eat it. You don't have to go somewhere because it's on your list of places you haven't reviewed yet. Oh, no, you've got it easy. You can eat at the same place every single day of the week if you want. Imagine if I did that. I mean, really. Imagine it. Close your eyes and in as much sensory detail as you can, picture and imagine me, your food critic, eating at the same restaurant every day for a single week. I mean, picture me wearing different outfits, and visiting the restaurant under varied weather conditions. Are you picturing it? Are you smelling the smells, hearing the background music? Well, that will never happen. Push that vision away! That's right, erase it, because I have to eat somewhere different on a daily basis. Because if I turned in the same review seven times in a row, even if it was different each time, why my public would be outraged! They would turn into the torch-and-pitchfork mob that hunted Frankenstein's monster. I'm serious (I always am).
If this is a rant, so be it. Wag Nabbit's, or Dag Dabbit's, or Wascally Wabbit, or whatever the heck it's called, it just isn't the kind of place I would ever set foot in were I not a food critic. I mean, you may not believe this, but at one time I was a very cool and with-it individual. My favorite Velvet Underground LP was the Couch Album, for goodness' sake. And now here I am eating some darn chicken-fried steak-chicken-fried steak steak thing at Dang Dabbit's suburban hellhole. You like I like this place? You think I like the music they play in here? This isn't music, I know what music is. This is the kind of music they play as soundtrack to the horrifying rituals of the spiritually embalmed.
I'm not sure how long I can continue to review places like this. I mean, do people who dine at Dab Diggety or whatever even read my reviews? They just eat there because it's attached to the mall, don't they? I mean, if they'd made a left turn they'd be at Dippin Dots instead, wouldn't they?
OK. I've vented. I feel better. The indigestion is settling. I'm going to finish my review and take a nap. The Steak-Fried Chicken XL wasn't really all that bad. Not really. I give up. I give it five stars...
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