United States | Goodies First

Jan 28

Chili’s

1/2 A crunched front fender is what happens when you eat at Chili's in Deptford. I don't know what the deal is with Pennsylvania drivers, but there's something seriously amiss and I've been observing this some time. Years ago while in Reading, PA for the weekend (fun times) we were hit by a car backing up in am empty parking lot, and ever since then we've been hyper alert to PA drivers who tend to swerve out of lanes and back up without looking. I've heard rumors that they didn't use to require driving tests, just a written exam. All I know is that there are disproportionate amount of Pennsylvania plates in Brooklyn owned by really bad drivers, which points to either a licensing or insurance scam.

So, while picking up a big shiny Panasonic plasma in Deptford, New Jersey near the Pennsylvania border (it was the nearest Circuit City location with the TV in stock) we stopped for lunch at Chili's. After eating our burgers, we were greeted by a nice big dent in the front of the car. Big surprise.

Though as a testament to the major difference between NYC driving and Deptford driving, we were about a block from the Chili's at a busy intersection when I felt motion in my peripheral vision. Someone seemed to be waving at us from a car to our right, which from experience is an action best left ignored. But the guy was flailing so hard we had to give in and acknowledge his presence. James reluctantly rolled down his window to hear what the mustachioed curly topped gent had to say. Something rude, I suspected, my guard was up. He replied, "I got in the wrong lane, is it ok if I get in front of you to make the turn?" I couldn't believe my ears and eyes. Someone would actually ask if they could go ahead of you in the left turn lane because they'd made a mistake? Brooklyn style would be to pull right next to you regardless, and when the light turned green to swerve right in front, causing you to slam on the breaks and come inches from hitting them, and then they'd give you a rotten look or flip you off like you were the asshole. By then the light would have turned yellow and you'd be stuck waiting for the next cycle like a chump. James and I both started laughing from the absurdity of asking permission to get in front of somebody and assuming they'd be good with it. Sure, fine, we waved him ahead when the light turned green and we both made it through the four-way, just like it works in the suburbs. Wow.

So, we ended up at Chili's after puttering around a section of town with abandoned movie theaters and half-empty malls with signage mimicking the old loopy '70s Gap logo. Time forgot Deptford. Thankfully, tanning centers and liquor stores had thrived.

Saturday, solidly late lunch time, Chili's was packed. We had to wait with lots of skinny crunchy-curled teenage girls and portly couples in matching stonewashed jeans and bomber jackets who gave me dirty looks for absolutely no good reason and make a point of forcing a cough when James lit a cigarette outside while we waited for a table. It's not like anyone there was exactly following a path to health–second hand smoke should be the least of their troubles.

I had a chipotle bleu cheese burger where medium is as low as they'll cook the meat and you're thankful because rare might cause gastrointestinal distress. The cheese was detectable, though the chiles, ironically, were not. What is Chili's shtick anyway? It's like Applebee's in that they're multipurpose, not like Olive Garden: we're Italian or Outback Steakhouse: we do steaks. It's not like everything is chile-laden. It's the baby back ribs, right?

My burger was large, juicy and greasy, as might be expected. It strangely satisfied its purpose. The fries were pretty so-so, not terribly crisp and a touch on the soggy side. I was way more taken by my surroundings than the food, as is often the case with me and suburban chain restaurants. Some nebulous emotional void was fulfilled that afternoon. Unfortunately, the car didn't come away quite as unscathed.

Chili's * 1760 Clements Bridge Rd., Deptford, NJ

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Jan 15

Chevy’s

We had three choices in the Target parking lot: Applebee's, Boulder Creek Steakhouse and Chevys. After a hard afternoon at Short Hills Mall, giant margaritas seemed in order.

And they were massive, which made me worry a bit since they conveniently omit drink prices from the colorful menu. We were guessing $12.95, but then you have to remind yourself this is real chain dining, not the Manhattan facsimile. My supersized Gold Rush (Cuervo Gold, Triple Sec and sweet & sour on the rocks) was a mere $7.95–if I'd known that from the get go I wouldn't have nursed it throughout the meal.

For once I didn't feel bad about ordering an appetizer sampler since we were four rather than just the usual two. Spicy wings, taquitos, fajita nachos and a "chicken ?dilla" quartered up, isn't a wholly unreasonable starter.

When I go gringo I do it all the way, and that means chimichangas, but I resisted and fooled myself into believing that seafood enchiladas were healthier (perhaps minutely). Really, Chevys isn't any worse than anything else that passes for Tex-Mex in the NYC area. It's not completely horrible, and they were playing Weezer, for whatever that's worth.

As one of my favorite parts of Red Lobster is the Cheddar Bay Biscuits, Chevys charms me with their little corn blob that's like a freeform corn bread, polenta hybrid. Ah, it's called a tomalito, and here's the recipe.

That would've, should've been enough, but then we had to go and order two desserts: an Ooey-Gooey-Chewy Sundae and something else with ice cream and caramel sauce that I can't recall the name of. I don't think it was the "potato," as they call it. Sunday night in Linden, NJ (I was treating it as a Sat. since it was a three-day-weekend) is a sparse affair. This is one of the only chain restaurants I've ever been to where there hasn't been a wait, not to mention empty seats. It was so desolate they had to send someone over to the Applebee's half-way across the parking lot to borrow whipped cream for our chilled desserts. Now that's service.

Chevys * 1150 South Stiles St., Linden, NJ

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Dec 10

Outlet Mall Applebee’s

1/2 "It doesnt look like the picture." Well, of course not. I'm not sure when James got the idea that what shows up on the plate should actually resemble the sparkly semi-appetizing promotional shots. What do you expect from an outlet mall eatery, anyway?

Without intention, the Woodbury Common Applebees has become a Christmas shopping tradition. Some might equate Rockefeller Center, classic shop window displays from Macys and Bloomingdales, the skating rink, giant Christmas tree and the like with the holidays. I'm beginning to associate tour busses, Le Creuset seconds and marked down Gap goods with the season.

Applebees is no great shakes, but compared to the food court offerings (Wasabi Jane's Rice and Noodle Works, anyone?) its no contest. Plus, they have alcohol. And if you go after 7pm the wait isnt even insane (why people will wait up to an hour for chain restaurants is beyond me). I'm not scared of Applebees, even after being told by friends a few weeks ago that this very restaurant (not location) made them go vegetarian two years ago after being food poisoned.

I started with a nice Malibu-spiked Bahama Mama. Classy, and it paired nicely with the nachos, which were kind of unremarkable. I wanted there to be more stuff smothering the chips. Lots of stuff, i.e. melted cheese is practically an Applebees hallmark. I then eschewed the riblets and steak and shrimp combos for a sassy sandwich with Latino flair, Ruebens Cuban Panini. Never mind that by definition a cubano is pressed, people are freaking panini crazy like they were for wraps like five years ago. It wasn't horrible, though the ham had a faint chemical undertone. The bread was the strange (yet tasty) component, it almost appeared deep-fried, crisp, spongy and oily at the same time like a beignet.

And speaking of crunchy, sweet dough, we had to finish with their new dessert the Crispy Bread Pudding, despite already being stuffed silly. It also didn't look like the picture. There wasn't any whipped cream, there wasn't any caramel drizzled over the scoop of vanilla ice cream. The dipping sauce came in a plastic to go container rather than a proper serving dish and we were given two spoons instead of forks. How are you supposed to dip the damn sugar and cinnamon crusted bread chunks with a spoon? I like super sweet sweets, but this concoction almost put me into a coma. Of course, we cleaned the plate anyway. (12/10/05)

The Melting Pot

Maybe moms really do know best. In the '80s, my family would purchase one of those fat square Entertainment Books year after year, though I don't recall ever using more than maybe a handful of coupons. We never went out to eat, only occasionally hitting McDonald's or Taco Time (never Bell), unlike today's kids who are practically brought up on Babbo.

I used to wistfully thumb through the advertising tomb longing for something exciting. Sure pizza and hamburgers were fine, but fondue, now that was exotic. I'm sure I asked or begged to go to The Melting Pot, which seemed like the height of sophistication. But my mom wasn't having any of it, there was no wearing her down. I don't think it was anywhere near our home and I'm certain it was out of the child-friendly price range.

Well, it took about 23 years, but now that I manage my own life I made the magic happen. While hitting the Trader Joe's in Westwood, NJ a few weeks ago, I was shocked and awed to see that The Melting Pot chain was alive and thriving. I vowed to pay a visit on our next TJ's run, which we did. Who knew that their "dip into something different" slogan would prove so accurate.

Things did not start off well when we casually popped in on an early Saturday night. Funny, how in Manhattan all but the most exclusive restaurants are fine with walk-ins, yet a cheesey (ha) chain in New Jersey acts like you're trying to jump a velvet rope. Yes, it takes a lot of nerve. Our flagrant disregard for their rules seemed to miff the blonde Meadow Soprano hostesses. Initial bubbliness turned to haughty dismissal when we said we didn't have reservations.

We were begrudgingly quoted a 25 minute wait, which we naively agreed to not realizing it would be more like an hour nursing a watered down gin & tonic at the bar. And ultimately we were seated mere feet from where we had been sitting in the bar and were told at about the half hour mark whose table we were waiting for. That's probably not the wisest move for quelling antsy diners wanting to eat. We couldn't help but stare at couple occupying our future table, mentally commanding them to move it along faster.

The Big Night Out, a three-fondue-course, $78 per couple barrage that they eagerly push on you, says it all. This is a place catered towards parties and celebrations. So, we ultimately did the Big Night Out, primarily because the menu is bizarrely overwrought and confusing (I refused to believe we were the only ones in the place too dumb to understand the many fondue permutations and combo meals) and about half way through

I was wishing we'd gone a la carte. As the meal dragged on I began feeling punished, and most definitely violated, and no, it wasn't sexy in the least. It was like we'd entered an alternate universe where time didn't play by normal rules. I still can't figure out how we managed to arrive at 5:30pm and barely make it out by 9:00pm.

The swiss cheese artichoke heart fondue was actually pretty tasty, kind of like an Olive Garden appetizer, and came with a pantry's worth of dipping items: French and rye bread, tortilla chips (weird), green apple chunks, baby carrots, celery and cauliflower. Their shtick involves a built-in adjustable heated square in the middle of the table where each fondue course is prepared in front of your eyes. Personally, I'd be just fine with the fully finished version. I was scared the whole time that Oscar, our waiter, was going to drop or break something.

There was fanfare surrounding his additions of garlic, artichoke hearts, spinach and swiss cheese to the broth (no traditional use of gruyere, emmenthaler, wine or kirsch). And then there was the lone bottle of Tabasco sauce that he never added and seemed to have orphaned on our table. About half way through our gooey dish, we asked, "what's the Tabasco for?" to which he dully replied, "I was supposed to put it in the fondue" and then walked away with the condiment in hand. Uh, ok, so why didn't he just put it in? I was so baffled by the customer service at this point that it seemed futile to even ask for a few shakes of sauce. And outrageously, the Westwood specific website is currently featuring that they were awarded top marks by some mystery dining association. Amusing, because the whole time I was thinking about how I would've written this place up if I were a mystery diner (not food critic, mind you–that's a beast unto itself). And the words Top Performer didn't exactly come to mind.

We then got salads (mine California, which meant blue cheese, walnuts and raspberry vinaigrette. James's chef's, which I'm sure you can imagine) that came with a shaker of an oddball garlic and wine powder. Why would you think to make a seasoning from dried up wine and garlic? I figured that my fruity dressing was quite enough and avoided the additional flavoring altogether.

Then came the coq au vin broth, also prepared before our eyes, the final touch a hammy, "here's a little wine" while pouring a dash into the pot, then "here's a little more wine" followed by "and here's a little more" polishing off the half carafe, which was presumably intended to elicit squeals and/or exclamations from the two of us who remained stone faced. All that was missing was a "bam!" We opted for the cheapest (though not cheap) of the three entre fondue mix-ins, which included a hodgepodge of chicken, sirloin, shrimp, kielbasa, potatoes, broccoli, squash, mushrooms, potstickers and pirogies. It's a good thing I like peculiarly colored food because everything came out of the pot crimson-stained.

We weren't asked if we wanted to sit in the bar, and this would've been a huge issue for many since smoking is still allowed in New Jersey. I am a light smoker, but wouldn't feel right puffing away with diners inches from me. Of course, this courtesy doesn't go both ways. Part way through our tortuous meal, numerous loud birthday parties and a DJ took over the bar area. The teddy bear of a guy began playing an amplified acoustic guitar directly behind my chair. Clichd yet authentic accents, evil eyes, menthol smoke, and tan, wrinkled, cosmo-sipping, office managers gone wild (they probably wear those long hideous sweater coats) became the pervasive theme. I was so mad because my camera went dead before I could capture visual evidence that my words can't convey. Usually, I'm not one for photos in a restaurant, but since we were in the party room and all…

There was a group of 40-ish looking ladies who were celebrating a chunky friend in a plastic tiara's birthday. I know I'm warped with ages (I'm always shocked to discover that almost everyone in the universe is younger than me despite looking liney and haggard) so I jokingly suggested the woman was probably only 31. Nope, it was the big three-oh.

By this point, I'd had enough, and absolutely no stomach for a dessert course. But we'd agreed to the whole painful shebang, and I'm too cheap to not get my money's worth, so we trudged through a vessel of chocolate turtle (for the overly cultured, that means caramel swirled not reptilian) fondue with strawberries, pineapple, marshmallows, brownie chunks and cheesecake. I wanted to hurl all over the built in burner, or on Oscar, or maybe on top of one of the many frosted heads of horsey hair. I'm not even sure that my nausea was food induced. It felt more like my soul had been poisoned.

I'm no Brooklyn booster, but no matter how much borough haters claim that if you're going to move to Brooklyn you might as well live in New Jersey, they're way off base. The Melting Pot, at least in this permutation, wouldn't work in Brooklyn. The bulk of busted to middling pockets would consider it too expensive, the gentrified swaths wouldn't stand for the pretension, Emeril theatrics, cigarettes or live Simon & Garfunkel covers. The whole next day James and I were like "what happened?" We felt dirty and victimized. For $125 you can get real food or even good food, that's what I've never understood about these poor value chain restaurants. I'll admit to loving novelty more than any human should, but it certainly can come at a price.

The Melting Pot * 250 Center Avenue, Westwood, NJ

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Nov 19

The Melting Pot

1/2 Maybe moms really do know best. In the '80s, my family would purchase one of those fat square Entertainment Books year after year, though I don't recall ever using more than maybe a handful of coupons. We never went out to eat, only occasionally hitting McDonald's or Taco Time (never Bell), unlike today's kids who are practically brought up on Babbo.