Brevity is: Spamily
It’s not the gift but the thought that counts. Or so I’ve been told. And the thought behind this gift spoke volumes, the thoughtfulness of a $50 gift card to Olive Garden from a boss in lieu of a legitimate Christmas bonus.
Not that I’m known for having a fondness for Olive Garden. I haven’t been to one in over 10 years. Still, a gift card to dinner is marginally better than last year’s bonus, a gift card to Walmart which was used to get kitty litter. Joy.
I’m the Bad Guy?
Last night my wife and I had a conversation.
“What’s for dinner?”
“I don’t know. What do you want?”
“Dunno. What do you want?”
“Dunno, either.”
“Looks like we’re going out.”
“Yup.”
“Yup.”
Seriously. Why I’m not picking up an Oscar for best original screenplay beats the hell out of me.
Dirty Tops
The restaurant industry tends to be cyclical. It’s one trend followed by another. You’re cutting edge for a while and then you’re chasing the pack. It can be a real rat race. Perhaps lemmings are involved?
Yes, I’m trying to include lots of references to rodentia. We’re talking about restaurants here. I don’t recognize sacred cows. Like always I gotta keep it classy.
There’s a trend where celebrity chefs are seen everywhere except in their own kitchens. I’m looking but not looking at you, Naomi Pomeroy. Squee. One final Beast reference.
Honey Badger, though, will have the last word. Keep reading.
Portland Restaurant Waiting Guide
The Screen Door restaurant on Burnside Street, Portland, Oregon. I’ve stood in that line.
Next up, on Iron Skillet Chef America our celebrity judge feels he’s entitled to share his opinions. Alloy cuisine!!! –Ed.
As a proud “native Oregonian” I’ve lived in Portland, on and off, since 1981. I’ve been to a few places to eat along the way. From food carts to neighborhood pub n’ grubs to world class cuisine, Portland has a veritable plethora of long waiting lines guaranteed to satisfy most any connoisseur of the latest trendy thing.
Voodoo Doughnut? I’ve never been. The line has always been too damn long. Who has that kind of time for a doughnut with bacon on it? My trick? Go to two different places, grab a doughnut from a regular place and a side of bacon from a diner. Voila! I call that Voodoo without the wait. When you’re downtown you’ll people toting around with their little pink boxes of Voodoo doughnuts as if to say, “Look at me! I did the wait!” Pro Tip: That pink box goes really well with plaid.
Raisin’ The Bar
Ether you’re with me or you’re a’gin me.
So you want to swim upstream and spawn. Good for you. What business is that of mine? None, I’ll admit, unless the government decides to subsidize your reproduction of yourself with credits and tax rates and/or you ever try to bring them around me.
It turns out there’s something more trendy than microbrew, fedoras, bicycling, beards, tattoos and North Face jackets. What could it possibly be?
Oh, yeah. It’s bringing your wee young ones to restaurants or, inconceivably allowed, bars and pubs. What could possibly go wrong?
The other night my wife and I were at a BBQ trendspot in PDX. As always, any place that is half-way edible means that there will be a 45-minute wait. That’s life in the big city. But that also means we had time to be treated to the floor show.
Two women were standing around holding their drinks while three small children accompanying them ran hog wild. (It was a BBQ place, after all.) They ordered another round. Every once in a while they’d yap something at the kids which was promptly ignored, had no effect, and they returned to nursing their drinks.
Meanwhile, I wondered what it would take for a restaurant to actually ask them to leave. Maybe if they set off a small nuclear device? Maybe, I figured, but probably not.
We were seated and, of course, we were only two tables away. We watched them order two more rounds of daiquiris. Apparently they and the restaurant were teaming up for Set A Good Example night. I couldn’t help but wonder how they were all going to get home.
Earlier we went to a place on the Columbia River for happy hour but the lounge was full. We opted to sit on the deck. No doubt it was a beautiful view. On the other hand, we had to order from the dinner menu, there were no happy hour prices, and, through the lounge windows, we saw lots of wee small children. Some were sticking their tongues out at us.
What the fuck.
The Family Owned Rest-O-Taunt
The wrong kind of hunger.
Kids in restaurants: What more can possibly be added to the conversation on this grisly topic? What are the chances of any new pithy insights, useful anecdotes or even a side serving of a modicum of wit? Hell if I know, but I’m going to give it my best shot.
Every once a while a restaurant will make the national news because they do something daring like “banning” children under the age of six. That’s old news by now, even though the practice didn’t exactly become the norm.
So, unfortunately, we’re all desensitized to fine dine experiences that include the boorish behavior of other people’s kids. I dare say, bad form. Especially on top of all the other usual nonsense like cell phones, loud mouths, drunks and cigarette smoke.
But there’s a particular variant of this that was recently brought to my attention by the kindly staff at a local eatery the other night: When the kids aren’t just fellow guests but are owned, operated, sponsored and provided by the restaurant itself.
Duh, duh, duh!!!
I guess we could think of them as the amuse-bouche of upgrade comps. Now that’s a hot ticket!
Shouts from the Abyss 
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