The smell of smoke smacks you in the face like a bitter ex-girlfriend as you walk into the door. It's been awhile since I've been in a restaurant that allows smoking. No kiddos here please. 21 and up only. I ordered the "Our Own Burger" with fries.
The burger came out rather quickly, but that was about the last time we saw our waitress. My empty cup of unsweet iced tea taunted me like an empty water dish does a dog chained up outside on a hot summer's day.
Presentation wise, the burger came out like it was thrown on there from fifteen feet and the crinkle fries splayed across the plate like they were shot out of a bazooka. Not pretty. I didn't know what to expect on my first bite. The "special sauce" had me worried right after I ordered it, but none of these other panty waists would order the house special, so I took the bullet. It was a tasty burger, the type of burger you'd expect from a place littered with Frank Wycheck memorabilia and flourescent lighting. Not the "I'm environmentally concious tree hugging type", but the crass $4 contractor special tube variety. Made this sensitive artist's eyes hurt (sniff sniff). I'm downing Excedrin as I blog to combat the smoke/lighting attack blugeoned upon my senses. It was a bit dry for my taste even with the special sauce. Being the high brow snob that I apparently am (see PM review) I expect a little more in the tasty department when atmosphere constitutes plastic ashtrays, a nicotine haze and Miller Lite banners.
Since I'm the boss and this counts double... 4 out of 10.
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