I met a friend for lunch today at the Red Lobster. Yes, I'm well aware that I live in the veritable restaurant capital of the universe, and that the Red Lobster can be found in multiple sub-par suburbs throughout the Grain Belt. But I am also aware that the Lobster is a feel-good romp through fat-doused seafood and sugary cocktails. And sometimes, your Monday just needs some Lobster.
The Lobster of choice is located in Times Square. This means three stories of Lobster, complete with a giant neon lobster set against rolling neon waves that my husband would sell his soul to tack up in our mythical garage, where all things neon go to die.
And at the Times Square Lobster, my gal-pal and I were definitively the only New Yorkers in the joint. Even the staff was painfully transplanted from Missouri. And I mean my-waiter-just-ingested-a-small-planet Missouri, not St. Louis Missouri.
At the Lobster, you can spend just $20 and gorge yourself on shrimp, crab legs, Caesar salad, and the best damn biscuits this side of my aorta. And although the seafood is dry and the asparagus is skinny, you are still sublimely happy. There's a lot to be said about eating corporate-tested recipes alongside your fellow man.
I've never been to the Lobster outside of New York, but I can't imagine any other location being as satisfying and inspiring. I hear that most Lobsters incur a one-hour waiting period and are packed with obese families in elastic-waist pants. My Lobster, however, is filled with tourists in their big-city finery looking for a little piece of home in the Big Apple.
The Lobster of choice is located in Times Square. This means three stories of Lobster, complete with a giant neon lobster set against rolling neon waves that my husband would sell his soul to tack up in our mythical garage, where all things neon go to die.
And at the Times Square Lobster, my gal-pal and I were definitively the only New Yorkers in the joint. Even the staff was painfully transplanted from Missouri. And I mean my-waiter-just-ingested-a-small-planet Missouri, not St. Louis Missouri.
At the Lobster, you can spend just $20 and gorge yourself on shrimp, crab legs, Caesar salad, and the best damn biscuits this side of my aorta. And although the seafood is dry and the asparagus is skinny, you are still sublimely happy. There's a lot to be said about eating corporate-tested recipes alongside your fellow man.
I've never been to the Lobster outside of New York, but I can't imagine any other location being as satisfying and inspiring. I hear that most Lobsters incur a one-hour waiting period and are packed with obese families in elastic-waist pants. My Lobster, however, is filled with tourists in their big-city finery looking for a little piece of home in the Big Apple.
And the tourists are happy. They are comfortable. They know what to order. There are no pesky adjectives on the menu, or fancy ingredients like a remoulade.
Because the tourists are happy, I am happy. Although I wish I could join them to flit off to see the Legally Blonde matinee, just dining alongside them fills me with peace.
Forget Disneyland. The Red Lobster is the happiest place on Earth.
Because the tourists are happy, I am happy. Although I wish I could join them to flit off to see the Legally Blonde matinee, just dining alongside them fills me with peace.
Forget Disneyland. The Red Lobster is the happiest place on Earth.
No comments:
Post a Comment