| rev:text
| - The only reason this bed-bug central of a dump gets 1 star is because I can't possibly rate it any lower. As if being located across from Jilly's (where old strippers go to die) isn't bad enough, this place harbours a special kind of scumbag, who wouldn't know what service was even if it sat on his face. You know who you are, sir.
Put it this way: if your friends say you're suffering from the case of "first world problems", or God forbid, you're feeling suicidal, by all means run to DDs because they will quickly give you a different perspective on life and leave you with lots to ponder.
I tried entering the place with an open mind, as I always do. I really really did. I was also starving, to boot. I saw the menu, I knew what I was getting into and what sold me was the picture on the back of the menu: it was a frail old man, an alleged founder. How cute.
Not quite. If Hell's Angels had pageants, the folks behind the counter would take home every award in the following categories: Foul Mouth of The Year, Most Questionable Personal Hygiene and I Can't Believe These Morons Think I Can Cook.
I'll skip the description of the interior because it looks like a scrap yard. Enough said. I ordered the chicken sandwich, which seemed like the safest thing to do as far as my coronary was concerned. Bear in mind, I entered the place with my usual sunny disposition that turned cloudily as soon as Mr. Charming behind the counter barked at me to hurry up and order while reaming out one of his employees for picking up Skippy peanut butter instead of a generic brand. Go, entrepreneurial spirit!
My boyfriend ordered something from the artery-clogging department and I apprehensively agreed to plop on one of those car seat chairs. There was another person sitting across from us, so the fact our food took forever and a day to be prepared would be surprising if not for the staff members' wandering back and forth, bickering.
Finally, our food was ready. I couldn't wait to get out of there. The plan was to drive down to Polson Pier and enjoy our food by the water. Sadly, my sandwich didn't make it. No, I didn't devour it like a ferocious pig on my way to the parking lot, it simply fell apart in my hands once I opened the wrapper after a 5 minute drive. The bun basically disintegrated and I applaud myself for being brave enough to give that sordid mess a taste anyhow. First things first, it wasn't toasted. Secondly, the toppings were soggy, wilted or funky-smelling. As for my chicken.....I suspect it died of natural causes. I convinced myself that the chicken sandwich was the restaurant's inside joke of a punishment for those not brave enough for "real danger", so I laughed it off, tossed it and asked my date about his burger. Turns out, the entire menu is a big, gigantic joke that only those superstars seem to get.
One would think I'd avoid this place like a plague but no. I returned there two years later, with my friends, assuming best intentions and hoping that perhaps tonight will be better. You know, the whole "make every mistake twice, just to be sure" kind of thing. Luckily for us, we didn't even make it through the front door. I won't repeat verbatim what was said, but the only thing missing from that scene was a gigantic confederate flag. The only regret I had at that point was the fact I was a 5'2 woman and not a 6'4" beast of a man so I could pummel the ever-lasting snot out of that arrogant prick's face. The day they get the hell off Queen Street and perhaps move under the bridge around Don Jail will be the best thing to ever happen in that neighbourhood. They are the ultimate hork in the face of the food industry.
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)
![[cxml]](/fct/images/cxml_doc.png)
![[csv]](/fct/images/csv_doc.png)
![[text]](/fct/images/ntriples_doc.png)
![[turtle]](/fct/images/n3turtle_doc.png)
![[ld+json]](/fct/images/jsonld_doc.png)
![[rdf+json]](/fct/images/json_doc.png)
![[rdf+xml]](/fct/images/xml_doc.png)
![[atom+xml]](/fct/images/atom_doc.png)
![[html]](/fct/images/html_doc.png)