Few, if any, major forms of recreation in American history have changed as much as dining out. The trek from Victual Desert to Gourmet Cornucopia gained momentum as the Industrial Revolution made eating away from home a necessity for armies of workers as well as occasional travelers. But for the next 100 years, the typical restaurant aimed no higher than to emulate "home cooking." Then, in the 1960s, changing demographics, ethnic diversity, technology, and American ingenuity combined to change eating habits at a dizzying pace. By 2003, no country could match the United States in the variety of foods available nor in innovations in the preparation, service, and dining ambiance for a population that consumes 54 billion meals a year that are not prepared at home.
In the United States, hot dogs and their many variations (corn dogs, chili dogs) are perhaps the most common street food, particularly in major metropolitan areas such as New York City. Roasted and salted nuts are also often sold. Pretzels and cheesesteak are common in Philadelphia. Throughout America, ice cream is sold out of trucks. Chinese cuisine is sold in many large cities and Chinese neighborhoods. Pizza is often available from window counters.
Ethnic diversity and the lack of a strictly defined national cuisine (such as those enjoyed by France or Italy) has given new meaning to the term "melting pot." In most urban areas in America and Canada, it is not uncommon to find vendors selling falafel, gyros, kebobs and rice, panini, crepes, french fries, chicken tikka masala, eggrolls, or other popular international dishes. Mexican foods such as tacos and tortas are sold in neighborhoods with Mexican population and the variations of street food tend towards food with a Latin American flair.
In certain neighborhoods Tamale vendors are stationed every few yards. Shirtless men sell drinking coconuts, lopping off the tops with rusty machetes when you slide them a buck or two. Fruit carts sluice watermelons or mangos with lime juice and disabling lashings of hot chili. Purveyors of the cholesterol-laden crack known as bacon-wrapped hot dogs are prepared on makeshift grills rigged from propane tanks and old shopping carts.
Taco trucks, the acknowledged aristocrats of street food, often have hourlong lines for their exquisite fare, not just the usual tacos and burritos but street food from every imaginable region of Mexico: Oaxacan clayudas and Sinaloan seafood cocktails and Mexico City-style quesadillas and Guadalajara-style goat and the godhead sandwiches called cemitas from Puebla are all available for less than the price of a quarter pounder with cheese.
Taco carts with the smell of charring meat, the fire, the islands of warmth and light in the cold dark, practically compel you to eat off soggy paper plates balanced on the roof of your car, to watch a cone of marinated pork blackening on its flame-licked spit as if it were the Super Bowl in sudden-death overtime. Does it matter that the stand, set up in front of an auto-body shop, has no name or license? No. You bite into the tacos while the bubbling meat is still hot enough to scorch your greasy lips, and in that moment you know there is no better food on Earth.
Nothing’s more amusing than eating a moderately tasty meal with a moderately flat beer served by moderately irritating waiters for a moderately unreasonable price. And all in a moderately vermin-free environment! This explains the explosion of the so-called “fern bar”—T.G.I.Friday’s, Bennigan’s, etc.—those joints that serve up a night on the town just about everywhere and are always decorated with ferns. (What’s up with that?) Unlike fast food places, these are real restaurants with booze and none of that quality control crap. Since we all end up in one now and then, we decided to find out which one sucks the least.
We picked a random place (Wilmington, North Carolina) and sent five guys to five fern bars on five different nights. To find out if these places could serve a cold brew, we ordered a draft Bud and measured the temperature with a thermometer. Then we tested the kitchen by ordering wings, steaks cooked to order (well, medium, bloody as hell, etc.), plus any other bizarre items on the menu. We challenged the service by planting a four-foot-long hair in our food. Finally, we pretended it was somebody’s birthday and waited to see what kind of free booty we’d get. Let’s dig in!
Chili’s
Scoop: What began in 1975 as a humble Dallas burger-chili-margarita-beer shack has grown into a goofy faux-Mexican empire of 753 locations across 20 freakin’ countries. (That kinda makes their slogan, “Like No Place Else,” a big, fat, greasy lie, doesn’t it?) Bonus geek alert: They call their employees “ChiliHeads.” Where do we fill out an application!?!
Beer: At a blistering 48.6 degrees, their draft suds were the warmest of all the places we visited, which means either their service was slow or Pepe the barback is
pissing in the kegs again. Of course, we ordered another round. And another…
Chow: With our mouths full of boiling-hot beer, perhaps the waitress misheard our order of “steak, medium-well” as “steak, burnt to hell.” “I couldn’t believe how they senselessly tortured that poor cow,” complained one guy with tears in his eyes. The Buffalo chicken “drummettes” left us limp also—hardly hot enough for a “Mexican” joint. However, the Southwestern Eggrolls were quite surprising. Um…olé?
Hair: When we “found” the offending lock in our chicken wings, the entire staff of Chili’s—manager, assistant manager, waitstaff, dishwashers, the works—came out to apologize and deliver a new plate of meat boiled in grease. Cool. “Heard you got a little something extra in your dinner,” quipped one wise-ass waiter. Yeah, too bad we can’t return the disgusting favor! (Oh, wait—it was our hair. Forgot.)
Birthday: The folks at Chili’s didn’t sing us a song. Our lying birthday boy will never be the same again, the poor bastard. He felt a little better when a waiter came out bearing a free slice of cherry cheesecake.
Overall: Well, they’re the humblest apologizers, and of all the joints we visited, Chili’s had the cleanest bathrooms. (We’re glad their Mexican “theme” didn’t include Mexico’s sanitation philosophy.) But we wouldn’t wish this food and warm beer on anyone. Check, please!
Applebee’s
Scoop: With 100 new Applebee’s sprouting up across the country every year (1,300 and counting since the first joint opened in Atlanta circa 1980), this chain is spreading like a case of ringworm in a nursery school. Their dirty secret: The décor adopts the theme
of whatever town they’re in. For example, all the Applebee’s in New Jersey are decorated with sewage and engine emissions.
Beer: Delivered in a frosty mug, their 34.7-degree draft Budweiser was the coldest by far! Now was that so hard? Jeez. An aside: Good luck getting a dry martini at Applebee’s.
Chow: The honey pepper steaks weren’t so bad, our guys agreed, if you go for that kind of thing. (“The best cafeteria-style cow I’ve had since lunch,” raved one.) The wings proved tangy, though they were an eerie glow-in-the-dark orange that made us think of nuclear waste. We also tried the “Riblets”—small riblike items that should be eaten by women while you watch. That was the closest thing this neighborhood joint had to offer for a bizarre-sounding dish we could make fun of. Yawn.
Hair: “Correct me if I’m wrong,” said one tester while holding the evidence in the air, “but I specifically asked for the tequila-lime chicken with the toupee on the side!” The waitress promptly brought us another meal with a well-rehearsed “You’re the guest, anything you want.” Thanks! So is fornication outta the question?
Birthday: A standard-issue free ice cream sundae arrived with the statement “We don’t embarrass people here at Applebee’s.” Except yourselves, of course. Now that’s policy!
Overall: The vittles were bland but edible. The service was adequate but unremarkable. “It’s so damn normal here,” summed up one of our guys. “It’s like we’re being served by robots from the planet ThankYouComeAgain.” The place to come when absolutely any food will do.
T.G.I.Friday’s
Scoop: Sex! Drugs! Potato skins! Yep, the original 1965 T.G.I.Friday’s was a swingin’ Joe Namath– era New York singles place. Somewhere along the line, Friday’s became a G-rated nirvana, serving approximately 164,326,250 heads a year in 52 countries. Needless to say, rest room blow jobs are way down.
Beer: Cheers! At 40.8 degrees, T.G.I.Friday’s brew was the
second coldest—and they brought us an extra by mistake! We also ordered the “Electric Lemonade”—a blue concoction that came in a fishbowl and tasted like Windex. Said the sorry boozer: “I felt like I’d just cleaned the windows with my tongue.”
Chow: Their Jack Daniel’s steaks were so tasty, we nearly had a cow. And the wings: “Hotter than any of the girls in here!” This joint served us so much food, we nearly hurled. Mmmmm, regurgi-tasty.
Hair: Said one diner: “After I threw a fit over the hair in my steak, I was swiftly given a new one, a free side of veggies, and a cup of dipping cheese! If I had hair
I’d put it in all my food!”
Birthday: The entire staff went bonkers, giving us balloons, a banana split, and a special birthday song: “I don’t know, but I been told/Bob is gettin’ pretty old.” It wasn’t Grammy material, but, hey: It was still better than Jewel’s new album.
Overall: The food was pretty agreeable, and the staff have finally traded in their infamous butt-ugly striped uniforms for simple blue attire. Throw in a lap dance and a mud-wrestling pit and you got yourself a restaurant!
Bennigan’s
Scoop: Founded 26 years ago by an Irishman named D. Bennigan, this Gaelic grill has used its 70-plus menu items to generate over $1.4 billion in annual revenue—all in the name of “the indomitable Irish spirit.” Here’s a taste of what that means…
Beer: Bennigan’s lists a “Pint of Guinness” as an appetizer! Bottoms up. Unfortunately, these authentic Irish folk like their beer warm. At 46.6 degrees, their draft Buds almost burned our tongues.
Chow: Their Buffalo wings (extra hot!) and 10 oz. Irish-American steak (cooked with a splash of Jameson’s whiskey) were O’tasty, cooked to O’perfection. The best of the bunch! But their “exclusive” Broccoli Bites (that’s broccoli wrapped in cheese and bacon, fried, and dipped in smoky Dijon) were just plain O’putrid. Lamented one of our guys: “You just don’t mess with broccoli, man.”
Hair: When we pulled a long nasty strand of black hair from our baked potato soup, our waitress instantly replaced the bowl—but forgot to grovel for forgiveness. The nerve!
Birthday: In a performance best described as, well, pathetic, five untalented staffers mumbled their way through a rendition of “Happy Birthday.” We quickly forgave them when we were presented with a free delectable hot fudge sundae topped with chocolate sauce. Blarney—that’s good!
Overall: Instead of concentrating on snazzy merchandise and not-so-clever menu puns, this chain focuses on food. (There’s a novel idea!) Unfortunately, everything else about Bennigan’s is about as exciting as a shot put tournament.
Hooters
Scoop: Hooters survived a 1997 lawsuit over their practice of hiring only female servers. Thank God—the jiggling, bouncing “Hooters Girls” have been their trademark since 1983, spawning a quarterly magazine and photo calendar, both of which have launched the career of many a mammorific model. We also hear they serve food.
Beer: Noted one of our guys: “At 45 degrees, their brewski’s temperature fell right into the middle of the pack—into the cleavage, if you will.” (We will.) Bonus: Our pitcher was refilled without us even asking! She sooo wanted us…
Chow: The “911”-style wings hardly made us breathe smoke, and the steak sandwiches (they didn’t have slabs) were tougher than Chuck Zito. One of our guys gagged on some meat and required mouth-to-mouth. (The lucky bastard.) Hooters also boasted the single most revolting menu item we tasted—the Hooters Shooter—a shot glass filled with beer, cocktail sauce, tartar sauce, and an oyster.
Hair: Obviously not accustomed to being criticized, our busty busgirl coldly removed our hairy Hooters (More Than a Mouthful) burger. Another one arrived in minutes. Too bad it was completely raw. We’ll pass on the tartare, thanks.
Birthday: “It started out like a fantasy,” recalls our birthday boy. “A herd of Hooters girls encircled me, clapping and chanting. But then they made
me stand on a chair and spell out my name in the air with my ass!” Unfortunately for us all, his name happens to be Thelonius Von Stockenheimerbergerstein.
Overall: Although you can’t argue with the breasts-and-burger concept, the food is exactly what you’d expect from a gang of full-bosomed sexpots. In other words, just order a couple of pitch-ers and enjoy the view!
Dan Kraus. Wings and a Prayer. Maxim. February 2002.
