Although we didn't eat Turkey for Thanksgiving, I'm still suffering from post-holiday, faux-tryptophan fatigue, and so here's one more post regarding our recent trip to Joshua Tree.
Having exhausted ourselves from driving, hiking, and tip toeing around each other's frail sensibilities, we decided to go out to eat on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Knowing the options in this remote high desert area would be slim, I commissioned my daughters to find us a good place to chow down.
They have a nose for this kind of thing. And besides it would provide me with an excellent opportunity to score some Dad points, which I apparently need to do after all my years of paternal transgressions.
They located a restaurant named Pappy & Harriet's, which is in Pioneertown, and not technically Joshua Tree. Given that we had time on our hand and a mission to mend our once amicable relationship, I thought, what the hell, what's driving another 25 miles gonna cost me if it makes them happy?
Keep in mind however that 25 miles on a windy, dark desert road, smeared with the carcasses (or is the plural, carci?) of foxes, possums and jackelopes is no small feat.
We arrived at the nighttime oasis, which seemed to gather locals the way moths are drawn to magnesium-fueled bonfire, at 7 o'clock hoping to beat the "crowd." But the parking lot was jelly-tight with pick up trucks and RVs. Many adorned with bumper stickers that read: Let's Go Brandon.
The unnecessarily rude hostess told my daughter the earliest we could be seated would be 9 o'clock. And we'd have to listen to the live band that was playing that night, Jethro and Carburetor Calibrators.
At that point, it was time for Dad to make an executive call. And off we were back to Yucca Valley and a visit to the local Applebees.
It must be noted that I abhor chain restaurants. And with the exception of Olive Garden, my girls do too. Only they can explain their unbound love for OG's as they colloquially refer to it. The only thing chain restaurants have going for it is consistency, albeit consistently sub-par. Nevertheless, the devil cook you know is better than the devil cook you don't.
After much grumbling, we pulled in, and should have left immediately when we were greeted by three young 18 year olds at the front desk. Two of them were eating. And the third had some unidentifiable cheese sauce on her cheek.
Turned out the shoddy greeting was the best part of the meal. Suffice it to say, "We were not eating' good in the neighborhood."
The crispy chicken sandwich was not crispy.
The french fried potatoes were barely thawed.
And the server, a man (and manbun) in his late 30's, who was working his second night on the job, was MIA.
I understand that I'm running the risk of appearing like some Westside food snob, I am not. Truth is, I spent many years working as a line cook at these kind of restaurants, including TGIF, Cheesecake Factory, Denny's, etc. It is hard, hot, sweaty work, with very little in the way of rewards or advancement.
In other words, I understand the temptation to sleepwalk through the shift. Workers at these places invented the notion of "quiet quitting."
Thankfully, Applebee's serves ice cold draft beer in their patented and aptly named pint sized glasses...
If I were the CEO of Applebee's, I'd start with the refreshing Brewtus glass and build the entire brand around that.
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