Captain Monoxide's Log, Stardate December 11th...point 9: We closed the shuttle doors and stared…read morestraight ahead in shocked silence, as though we'd just witnessed someone douse themselves in gasoline and strike a match. In fact, what we experienced was infinitely worse; eating lunch at a "Home Cooking" restaurant in Vulcan.
"I wish I was bulimic," my girlfriend said, still unable to start the car and transport us out of Vulcan to have our stomachs pumped in Sick Bay. If this were an episode of Star Trek, we would have been the Away Team members wearing red shirts, being destroyed from the inside-out by entities known as Steakoids and Burgerians.
Earlier, we aborted our mission at one Vulcan restaurant after scanning the dismal menu and surroundings, when a local lady who'd seen us leave as she paid her cheque said within earshot of the restaurant staff, "It's a pretty crappy menu, eh?" Without the aid of a tricorder, I examined her for readings of irony but she was utterly sincere. We explained that the establishment just wasn't what we were looking for and asked if she could recommend another eatery in town. She simultaneously laughed and scoffed, "Well, there's A&W, but THIS is the best place in town to eat." Then she hopped in her Pontiac and sped off chortling, "Good luck," out her window.
Planet Vulcan appeared deserted, but we eventually encountered an open eatery with a window sign claiming "Home Cooking" and decided to give the place a try. Upon entering, I immediately assumed the café had recently moved in; unused shelving and furniture shoved to the sides. Nope. They have been a fixture here for some time now. I ordered a burger & iced tea and my girlfriend ordered the steak sandwich with a coffee. Simple dishes that even when they're pretty bad, should still be pretty good.
From our table, I looked over top of an insufficient divider that failed to block a couple of doors, across one of which WAXING was handwritten in marker. Inquiring about the door, the waitress proudly informed us that the café was expanding its services to include tanning and body waxing. She actually thought this was a good idea, a shrewd move of successful commerce. All I could think about was evaporating sweat from the tanning bed and meals that could no longer be described a "Virtually Hairless". With the squat partition, diners would have a full view of anyone entering or exiting the waxing and tanning rooms ~ I wasn't about to ask who would be doing the waxing. Why not just share the space with a pet shop?
As if they hadn't provided enough clues as to why the demise of Coco's is certain, the staff brought out our food. The "Caesar salad" tasted like it had been tossed in mayonnaise rather than dressing. There were no croutons and artificial bacon bits covered the plate like ants on a picnic lunch. Fakin' bits? I'd rather eat the ants. I had asked for no relish, no tomato and no mayo on my burger, which was topped with plenty of all three. The bun was burnt. The patty was not only thin, bland, overcooked and rubbery, it was a prefabricated frozen patty that you buy in boxes from cheap grocery stores. My ice tea was still in its Co-op brand can. Thoroughly disgusted, I had a look at what my girlfriend had been served.
The "cook" had taken the term "garlic bread" to mean just that: A garlic salted slice of bread that regressed to dough after soaking up the juices from what looked like boiled meat. I actually started laughing. Our situation was ludicrous and the meals were absurd. My girlfriend asked for some HP Sauce (to cover the taste) and the waitress brought over a cracked plastic bottle crusted with sauce that had leaked out and dried-up. She could have put it in a side dish to hide the fact, but the staff here was obviously shameless. Perhaps most appalling were the words "Home Cooking" painted on the café window. Whose home would that be?
"My coffee tastes like perfume," my girlfriend said. She grimaced as she ate and I could feel the eyes of the staff weighing down on us. No signs of culinarily gifted life forms here, but shrieks from the waxing room could be beneficial in muffling the groans of diners. Instead of the burger, I should have ordered a bikini waxing.
I left half of my meal and got up to pay, wishing Mr. Spock would show up here and decimate the café in a deluge of photon torpedoes and phaser fire.
"We could've eaten better here," we declared in unison as we pulled into a gas station, buying slushees to wash the taste from our mouths. My girlfriend offered to stop at a proper restaurant to get a real meal on the way home. "No thanks," I said. "That turned me off of food for awhile. I might not even eat tomorrow."
While the staff at this restaurant stare out at their empty eatery / tanning / waxing facility, wondering where they went wrong, I can honestly tell them: EVERYWHERE! Beam me up Scotty, this place isn't even fit for Klingons.
