I'm Done with Dining on McKinney

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.  I must be slightly mad then, because I keep falling for hipster dbag hotspots on McKinney Avenue promoting themselves on Open Table as gastropubs and making reservation there, only to discover we are twice as old as anyone else in the restaurant, there are disco balls everywhere and loud electronica background music, and the place smells like somebody had one too many Fireballs the night before and the restrooms haven't been swabbed out yet.

A year or so ago I had the misfortune of trying to digest an unrecognizable piece of fatty meat at Delfrisco's Grill on McKinney.  Even looking at the picture now makes my innards churn.  Yet all the pretty young things and handsome dogs of Dallas were clamoring for a table, while those from less fortunate zip codes or gene pools were milling around outside, their faces pitifully scrunched up against the glass in an effort to see what all the cool kids were up to.  As a Good Samaritan, I hurled my mystery meat at them merely as a warning sign, and was really surprised when I was unceremoniously asked to leave the premises pronto.  See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya.

A couple of months ago, I fell for the ruse again, and made a reservation for Clutch on McKinney, even though I was trepidatious about dining in a place named after a purse.  It was dinner time and there were about 12 people in the vast room, about 1/4 the number of the giant tv monitors showing all manner of sporting events except figure skating and rhythmic gymnastics. I asked our waitron unit where everyone was and she sort of rolled her eyes and said nobody showed up until 11:00 PM. at the earliest.  Where were we, Barcelona?  Mediocre is the kindest word I can think of to describe the food and the bartender heard "olive" when I said "lemon twist."  Twice.  Bye, Felicia.

So last Friday was a Whoops! I Did It Again, (That, my friends, is my first and hopefully last time to quote Britney Spears.)  I saw a newish entry on Open Table called Next Door and it was described as food-centric and made from scratch.  I should have looked at the website which has a completely different message "A Bar that Likes to Party."  We walked into the once again empty dining room and were seated at a corner table facing two young women sucking down wine and both talking at once in loud Valley Girl-ese.  The only other table was a group of about 15 or 20 people who were celebrating someone's birthday with copious cocktails and several rounds of shots.  Did I mention they were even louder than the magpies nearby?

I did like the huge wall of knockers that adorned the wall by the stairwell that presumably partiers ascend to sway against each other in time with whatever is blaring from their vintage speaker wall.  But the most eye-popping part of the place was the uniforms of the skanktresses female servers that almost covered their backsides, with black suspenders, and skin tight white knit shirts revealing they had all apparently had gone to the same balloon-smuggling plastic surgeon.

We had Cobb Salad Bites (fell apart when cut for sharing) and Pecan Crusted Chicken Tenders (fell apart when cut for sharing) and Steak Sliders (so tough they were hard to cut apart for sharing.)

And it was like deja vu all over again when I got an olive instead of a twist.

Meatapalooza at Texas de Brazil

This past weekend, four of us went to Texas de Brazil because we had a coupon.  It may have been the first coupon I've used since I turned in my seven-hole-punched frequency card at Midtown Carwash for a free fluff and fold.  I feel weird using coupons because I imagine inward eye rolls plaguing the server, who also entertains dark thoughts about less than generous tips and tightwads who take up space in a busy restaurant on a Saturday night at discounted prices, for crying out loud. Sometimes I have a coupon in my wallet but I end up not using it because apparently, I have some very specific self-esteem issues involving not wanting to be judged by people who just fed and beveraged me.

Our server, who we think might possibly have been an actual Brazilian because of her exotic looks and heavy accent, and who coincidentally also said she was from Rio, sold us Caipirinhas all around, explaining they were like Brazilian mojitos made with sugar cane alcohol and limes.  They arrived, sans umbrellas, and tasted like limeade with a shot of lighter fluid.

Just a Little to Start

We made our way to the extravagant salad bar, and I cautioned everyone from filling up on starters and not leaving room for meat as I loaded my plate with smoked salmon, sushi, asparagus, egg salad, prosciutto, couscous, cheeses and a giant bowl of lobster bisque. We had just reseated ourselves when young men in gaucho pants and knee high boots started running toward us with spears.  Initially frightened, I quickly realized the sabers had meat skewered on the ends of them so there was no immediate cause for alarm.

They seemed desperate to carve off some meat right then and there but our plates were so full we gestured helplessly, wondering how to say "no room on the plate" in Portuguese. Evidently, my finely honed pantomime skills were spot on because at once they understood, reached down, and flipped a little round card on the table from its green side to its red side. The aggressive meat purveyors screeched to a stop.

Once the salad course was done and clean plates arrived, the gauchos reappeared with dizzying speed and offered a relentless array of grilled meats.  We had filet, shank steak, pork shoulder, lamb, filet wrapped in bacon, pork wrapped in bacon, bacon wrapped in bacon and emu.  Then we had parmesan crusted pork chops, parmesan crusted filets, sausages, and a cut of meat called a picanha, which was described as a special Brazilian cut we might call a Top Sirloin Cap in the USA. It was fun using the tiny tongs they provided to nip off pieces of freshly sliced meat.  Both temperatures of the meat were great (hot) as well as (medium rare.)  Our only suggestion to the kitchen would be to cut way back on the salt. (My doctor made me write that.)

Meatapalooza

Finally, I flipped my card from green to red, indicating that I had eaten my bodyweight in protein and I was dangerously close to putting someone's eye out with a projectile formerly known as the top button of my jeans.  Succumbing to a food coma, I laid myself down under the table, thankful for floor length tablecloths, but only for ten minutes or so.

The bill came and seemed a little staggering.  The salad bar and meat parade was one set price but everything else was extra. Caipirinhas, the national drink of Brazil?  $14 each. Sparkling water? $5.75. After dinner mints? $20 each. Air Conditioning?  $12 per person per hour.

I whipped that coupon out so fast it would have made your head spin.