Cheddars R Us

I avoid chain restaurants like most people try to avoid catching a cold from some sniveling wretch on an airplane who uses their sleeve to stifle a sneeze.  This is not said in the same smug way a Vegan Atheist Crossfitter announces to anyone they've just met that they don't own a television.  Rather, there are so many chef-driven, inspirational dining destinations available that I don't want to waste caloric intake amongst formica and cryo-packed pre-portioned entrees concocted by a committee in some generic boardroom with menu abstracts, flip charts and white boards. (Wow, that did sound sort of smug, sorry.)  But we dined in a place called Cheddar's yesterday which apparently is part of a very popular highway diner conglomerate that aspires to make Cracker Barrel less relevant, which to me seems like somewhat of a low bar to clear.

It all started when I had the bright idea to waste a perfectly good Saturday making a trek to the hinterlands to explore the vast temple of unsold merchandise at the newly opened Nebraska Furniture Mart.  We rented a minivan, slapped on a couple of "Baby on Board" stickers, and packed a light lunch before venturing out to a far North suburb called The Colony.  (Basically, you have to drive from Dallas to Oklahoma and make a u-turn at the Red River and then take the first exit on your right.) The Nebraska Furniture Mart is so big that when you walk in, you can't see the whole store because it extends beyond the curvature of the Earth.  There is parking for about 1,000,000 cars I think, though upon reflection, that might be a slight exaggeration.  We opened the doors on 70 different refrigerators even though we don't need one and marveled at the impressive display of about 600 80-inch flat screen TVs.  We watched an Amish family caress the surface of at least 250 ceramic tile samples while nearby, a chubby little boy ate a waffle piled with whipped cream. Several heavily made up, older women were pushing around shopping carts with factory designed home accessories like pillows embroidered with "&" or "etc."  I kind of wanted to find an "M" like Mary Tyler Moore used to have in her apartment but we didn't see any.  And then suddenly, we were done.

Salad Daze

Next door to the shopping megaplex was a restaurant called Cheddar's.  I was dimly aware of them from past road trips and had a vague impression that they were like a Denny's or an IHOP but hired waitresses with more teeth.  Since all day  I had eaten just 6 crackers and some creamy pimento cheese, I implored D to stop in for some road trip fuel. (Admittedly, I was a little spacey from the long drive and the unfathomable displays of stuff that no one really needs. Plus, we were in the midst of a suburban adventure and I wanted to continue the excitement.)

Sandy, Mandy, and Brandy were three young, blonde hostesses who looked bewildered when I asked for a table for two.  It was 4:45 and the place was packed with huge, multi-generational families.  I think it was Brandy who brilliantly remembered there was a two-top by the server station adjacent to the emergency exit door.  We followed her through the enormous restaurant which was surprisingly sort of industrial chic and quite dimly lit.  Air Supply was lamenting a lost love on the Muzak system.  Our server invented the word "perky" and praised us lavishly on all of our menu choices. Her first name was one of those masculine sounding last names like Connor or Peyton so popular with the parents of millennials these days.

Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez

I ordered a delicious Bloody Mary (it was 5:01 by this point, don't be judgey) which boasted a lime wedge, skewered olives and an entire stalk of celery, so I considered it my salad course.  I really liked it and if I hadn't had an hour of driving home in front of me would have had another.  D ordered the New Orleans Pasta--Penne, Chicken, Shrimp, Sausage, and Creole Alfredo sauce with a thick slab of Texas Toast.  Connor high-fived  him and said it was her favorite item on the menu.  I ordered the half rack of Baby Back Ribs and the house-made Chicken Tenders, which came with a Loaded Baked Potato and freshly steamed Broccoli.  Peyton nearly swooned with my impressive menuography skills.

Guess what?  Both dishes were super tasty and fresh (though portioned for a family of twelve.)  Feeling virtuous, I ate all the broccoli, a fourth of

Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love

the potato, all three chicken tenders (as good as any I've ever had) and three of the ribs, which were spicy and tender and juicy and fell off the bone when I picked them up.  I made a little sculpture out of the white, meatless bones that looked like a scary pagan totem, which the bus person rudely swept into a tub, oblivious to the inherent artistry of my creation.

Peyton-Connor brought our check which was some ridiculous amount like $32.  I tipped her a generous $7 based on her smile and sheer exuberance in bringing to-go containers for all of our uneaten food, which would be enough for the next fortnight of dinners if we hadn't forgotten to take them out of the car when we got home on a scorching 99 degree day.

Based on this unexpectedly savory experience, I am reconsidering my stance on chain restaurants and shall never again pronounce them pedestrian and banal.  I encourage everyone to motor outside their comfort zone and indulge their unacknowledged yearning for highway food. Go to Joe's Crab Shack if you wish.  Rediscover your devotion to Red Lobster.  Heck, why not give Olive Garden a chance? The CEO's of these gigantic chains need your dough more than some ragtag, foraging, seasonally inspired chef driven kitchen does.  Plus, it's important that we retain our status as the most obese country in the world.