"You Should Try The Purge..."

Try the what!?

Ever since the boys were two or so they have played pretend restaurant.  I was working as a waiter when they were born and for several years afterward.  Often, they came into the  place I worked and consequently they began to cultivate a working knowledge of the restaurant business.

The first restaurant they opened was called "Slide" and it's had a long run here.  It sells sliders and fries and milkshakes and homemade chips and pickles and chicken fingers and... well... bar food, apparently.  Their second endeavor was an upscale place called "Chef," sort of and insider's place where all the "restaurant workermans" go for an after shift nosh and a microbrew.  It's actually above "Slide," or below, it sort of morphs back and forth, and it sells fancy foods like steak and "pretty things to eat," I think N said.

To any marketing types out there I'll wait while you are blown away buy the obvious brilliance of this business plan.  Basically, a pub sorta of place twinned with a high check, cuisine nouvelles, get-a-lot-of-buzz sort of joint.  And, ohhh, here's the good part; you never know which is which and, genius again, they share the same kitchen.  Brilliant.


Anyhow, the third restaurant in their entrepreneurial dynasty has opened, again, on the same premises. Called "Meat" it began serving this evening, a soft opening with a limited menu.  Here is that menu with my translations (you can click on it and get it full sized):

 

I was seated at a nice table near the kitchen and the chef came out because the waiter was a little giggly and a bit too silly to take my order.  


"You should try the Purge, Daddy."


"I was wondering about that, what is it?"


"Really good."  Chef talk for I dare ya to try it.


"I'll have the salad, The Purge, an orange joos, and I'll try the cheese appetizer."  With my kids you don't order just one thing.


"We're outa cheese," the ditzy waiter again, who is now lying prostate on the floor.  (At this point all I can think to myself is: didn't I work here once?)


The chef, Z for anyone taking notes, goes back to the kitchen and after about ten minutes of moronic prattering, sophomoric scatological references and a few mild physical altercations  (I know I used to work here, now) all the food arrives, served by the featherbrained waiter, followed by the chef wiping his hands on, oddly enough, a map torn from the yellow pages.


The salad is fine, the joos cold and The Purge is revealed: an open-topped box stuffed with every available toy meat in the pretend kitchen: a steak, two chicken legs, a hot dog and a sausage, a second steak (perhaps a lamb chop), a burger patty, a slice of deli meat and, the topper, a pickle wedge.  Yep, The Purge.  Order it next time you're at "Meat," you won't be sorry.


Next time I think I'll try the "Hand Burger."  (Honestly, doesn't that make more sense than Hamburger?)