Monday, 11 April 2011

Old Orleans Vs Harvester - FIGHT!!!

I've just had a very forgettable, or unforgettable, meal at Old Old Old Old Old Orleans.

We were served by a skeleton disguised as a bag of bones called "Ethel", who couldn't have been a day over about 97 years old. This bird was asking Jesus whether he would like "beans, fries or herby diced potatoes with that biblical fish". And Jesus fucking Christ, he wouldn't have stood for what I was served tonight.

I thought I'd be slightly sophisticated and order a starter other than a prawn cocktail, so opted for a "Black & Blue Mushrooms" dish which was meant to be sautéed (ooh, French) mushrooms, something BLACK(?!?)and blue cheese, served on brioche. I got something the resembled what you might find if you scraped a slice of toast along the inside of a toilet pipe coming from the deepest darkest dengue dengue fever intensive care unit in the whole of Africa - or an industrial colonic irrigation production line. The missus got enchiladas. Wise choice. After bitterly attempting to finish this tepid disgrace of an impression of cuisine, Elthel asked us if everything was alright and if we needed more drinks. Whilst receiving a bone shattering kick in the shin from the missus (translates to: be nice, we're at dinner), I decided not to ask for a pint of Tamiflu and an ambulance, instead opting to give a nod and a fraudulent smile.

Next up is the main course. You can't go wrong with a "Mardi-Gras Grill"? Just a plate of assorted grilled meats, served at once and hot? Yes you fucking can. As the usual 6ft tranny in a purple peacock outfit wasn't delivering his trademark dish, Ethel returned with our mains - and so chipper I thought she'd had her nostrils over a bottle of paint thinner since she took the plates from the starter. This brazen assortment of meat could very well have just been lifted off the M11. It was warm, so must have recently died, but so solid in texture that I felt like mailing them off to Help for Heroes as bullet proof armour for Our Boys in Afganistan. It could be saving lives, rather than trying to take mine. I'm trying to grip the steak knife with such ferocity that I miss sliced the steak, let go of the knife and it missiled about one inch wide of a fella's face sitting on the table in front of us. That could have been a fatality. Luckily, he didn't notice and still had both eyes. Whilst this circus is going on with my dinner, the missus is happily chomping away on her delicately cooked, well seasoned and fresh fajitas, blissfully unaware of my agony.

"Glenda" then introduced herself as our new waitress as Ethel was on her "break". I took that as Ethel has just had four strokes and perished in a piss stained heap of apron and bones - now Glenda wants her inherited tip. Bye Ethel. Glenda then repeated Ethel's enquiry and asked if everything was going OK and why I hadn't eaten my kevlar medallions. Not wanting to cause a fuss and quite keen to make an escape, I gave her the same façade and told her it was fine, I wasn't that hungry and would like the bill.

Considering I only even contemplated trying this place because I had a tenner voucher, the bill came as a BIG surprise. FORTY SIX POUNDS. This was AFTER the voucher. I felt like ripping off Glenda's colostomy bag and making her wear it like a hat. Resigned to nothing other failure at my choice of restaurant and with the slight consolation the bird had eaten her food, I decided to get the fuck out of there. Never again. Morale of the story is, go to Harvester. You'll get a waitress at least 80 years younger, meat you can cut without the aide of a diamond drill, more salad & croutons than your wildest dreams - and all for £20.

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