Starting a small Tavern in rural Northern California. Barley and Hops Tavern catalogs the trials and tribulations of the restaurant biz, and teaching wine country to love beer.

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

Rad to the max

On rare occasion, words fail me. It's not an innate inadequacy of the English language- it's actually quite a nice language, once you come to terms with it. The failure is mine. There are moments which unravel the very fabric of what we; the consumers, expect of a night out at a restaurant.

It's a well known maxim that any restaurant with any permutation of:


is a Chinese restaurant, 38% of which are buffets.

As the rubber from my wife's 2002 Saturn's tires spun hungrily down Bohemian Highway to our Ameri-Asian respite, we considered the kung-pao, the egg-foo, the sweet-and-sour, and the requisite green Jell-O, that cake that looks like it will taste good, but inevitably disappoints, and a chicken dish named after a famous war hero.

One of the forgoing monikers, which I shall not mention lest I unwittingly insult the humble proprietor, reflected in our winshield, heralding our arrival like a brassy gong.

Upon entry, we learned that our preconceived notions were for naught. Enough neon to placate a Debbie Gibson meets Tiffany trapper keeper hummed a constant drone, and we realized that this was no Chinese buffet. There would be no Moo-shi, no Hunan, no Hoisin, no fortune cookies. This was a diner, from 1985. Every wall was mirrored, every switchplate was mirrored. Every booth separated by expanses of faux flowers, but not the convincing silk kind- the mold-injected plastic flower-esque kind.

The food was unremarkable, as diner food from the 80's should be.

Restaurants are culinary time capsules. It is important to continually create, lest you end up a vestige of a time which, in a culinary sense, is best left forgotten.

1 comment:

applewoods said...

less big words and more pictures of Mir! I love you guys