B moved one step closer to the grave over the weekend, so the T2 crew decided to push him over the edge by clogging his arteries with fried food today. The chosen venue for this cholesterol-fest was Elliott Bay Brewing Company in Burien, an establishment raved about by B & R, but one never before frequented by J. The posse was joined by special guest diner, The Chef, who was rocking a totally cute new short haircut.
J first started to suspect the veracity of the claims of culinary delirium by R & B when they pulled into a strip mall parking lot full of stores with the names like La Preciosa, and a travel agency with a window full of scary carousel horses and a fully decorated Christmas tree. Despite these misgivings, J gamely soldiered on, and entered the restaurant.
EBBC is austere in appearance, decorated with lots of square furniture and sharp corners. The dining room is dark and the tables are oddly arranged with some sort of weird seperation dividing the senior citizens from the regular diners. The walls are festooned with a series of vaguely racist paintings of kerchief-wearing mammies throwing their hands up in dispair, as if they are trying desperately to return to the label of the syrup bottle they accidentally stepped out of.
The waitstaff was surly and many looked to be involved in the King County work release program. Our server managed to put on airs, an impressive feat when wearing a stained t-shirt two sizes too small, size 18 hot pants, and a smelly bar rag wrapped around your waist. J made an enemy when he discovered that the iced tea had an unpleasant and unadvertised "passion flower" flavor, as if someone spilled a sample bottle of Jean Nate in it, and sent it back in favor of a Diet Coke. When he wasn't ready to order when the server was ready to write it down, she dropped all appearance of pleasantry, and spent the rest of the meal staying away from the table or bringing food in petulant silence. Despite her haughtiness, J was wearing Prada, so he still felt superior.
The food at EBBC sounded unique, but was all pretty standard bar fare. J cannot abide the flavor or beer, and scanned the menu vainly searching for an item that didn't feature ale sauce, beer batter, or stout ice cream (sad horns). The posse decided upon a giant pretzel appetizer, which was larger than a human head, but sadly dry and flavorless. Most of the crew pronounced it delicious, but J suspects they were seduced by its girth. Nonetheless, it was edible, which was the name of the game for all the food consumed. R had her standard tuna tacos that drip some sort of creamy sauce when she bites into them (apparently this food item is on every menu of every Seattle restaurant), J had chicken strips from a bag (one of the few non-beer tainted items) served with tasty ranch dressing, B had a mound of fried fish that will be sure to keep him at the gym for days, and The Chef had a giant mushroom on a bun. While nothing was earthshatteringly delicious, you can't go wrong with fried food, so there weren't many leftovers.
Conversation over dinner was lively and quick-witted, much of it focusing on the unpleasant nature of the server, and the exciting prospect of what logo to use on the forthcoming T2 business cards. While EBBC was not the Shangri-La promised to J, it had passable bar food and dark corners, and a good time was had by all.
Food 2.5/5
Atmosphere 2/5
Waitstaff Fashion Sense 0/5
Good Times 4/5
A belated happy birthday to B!
Comments