| rev:text
| - The wife (The Sinaloence) and I are struggling to find the way to review this establishment. At first, like others, we were of a mixed mind and spirit, but on careful analysis our conclusions solidified. Oh, and forgive me for the length of the review.
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The restaurant environment is fine. It's the good 'ol boy southern Nascar racing, barbeque picnic-eating atmosphere. From the bathrooms that read Rudy for the boys and Trudy for the gals to the miniature models of Nascar on a faux corrugated iron roof. Mission accomplished. The atmosphere has that Southern Americana Sunday afternoon picnic feel.
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I began my meal and was surprisedly underwhelmed. The pork felt mass produced. Of course it is mass produced but it does not have to taste mass produced. The bun was generic a Walmart bun - the cheapest of the cheap and it tasted like it.
Why would a restaurant have the cheapest of the cheap buns for its sandwich? A small red flag started to sprout in my consciousness. I began to look around with an aroused suspension.
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I looked at the table clothes. The red and white checked table clothes reminiscent of Sunday picnics. Nice touch and it really is a warm and fuzzy accoutrement for the picnic ambience the company is providing. As I exam the table clothes I see they are the cheapest of the cheap. "Okay," I think (being generous), "they are throw away table covers. The end of the day comes and they are easily replaced keeping things neat and clean." I pull up the throw-away table cloth and what do I see? A cheap Costco folding table. Yes, I have three of them at home. So underneath these fine cheap table cloths are cheap Costco folding tables - not actual picnic tables. I shifted my weight uncomfortably in the chair. I looked at the chair and low and behold it is a Walmart metal folding chair. I do not own any of those. I rejected them. They were just too cheap and uncomfortable, but here I was sitting on one of these chairs here in this restaurant today.
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Then the restaurant management insulted me. Posted in repeated spots throughout the dining room floor are cutesy signs that, in a failed attempt at humor, tell you what to do. One sign, in particular, refers to picking up after yourself; as if that is not obvious. The entire restaurant is geared around self-service, but these good 'ol boys want to shove the self-service concept in your face so they hammer it home with tasteless fictitious humor ordering you to clean up after yourself because they don't want to pay for the labor. I begin to feel manipulated.
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I earn my living as a financial analyst. One of the tasks I frequently perform is that of auditing companies. I am well acquainted with preparing financial statements, best practices business procedures, and internal controls. So I really appreciate efficiency, well managed operations, and the bottom line. I, like everyone else, attend movies, go to dinner, shop at the mall and in the majority of those consumer experiences the companies I interface with are driven by the profit motive. Thank God for the profit motive. I am a capitalist. It is through our freedom to start businesses and keep the great majority of that profit that our lives are magnificently improved overall. So I want everyone I do business with to make a profit. When, though, I interact with a company I want to feel good about the experience. I want to be seduced. I don't want the profit motive shoved in my face.
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As we left the restaurant I felt conned, the cheapness of the bread, the ordinary meat, the portion sizes of the potato salad, the underlying cheapness of the tables and chairs, the non-funny posted signs ordering me to be clean. I looked back at the restaurant building and I felt laughed at for being a rube.
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I will not return to this establishment.
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