Pulling up to this inauspicious little house immediately leaves little for the mind to ponder. It's either going to be really good or really bad. Unfortunately in this case, really bad doesn't even begin to convey the true nature of this so-called restaurant. Approaching the front door, the smell of canned dog food and rotting garbage hung over the area like an ill portent. Upon entering there was a small chalkboard with the alleged "daily specials" quaintly scrawled upon it, though I'm pretty sure these were just items they found in the dumpster behind the local salvage store. We were seated at what appeared to be a small stainless prep table, though it could easily have been at home in the parish prison. We were handed menus on photocopied paper that appeared to have been hand written by a 3rd grader. Something felt fishy about this place. Catfishy even. My associate ordered an appetizer of onion rings. After all, why not? The ones in the pictures online looked so good and delightfully hand made. We ordered and a couple minutes later the onions rings and the cup of "cowboy chili" I ordered were set down on the table. The onion rings could well have been from burger king but lacked the charm thereof. They were served with a sauce that appeared to be nothing other than mayo, ketchup, relish and a couple of capers though I'm pretty sure the lax standards here would allow them to toss in whatever they wanted from time to time. The chili, though I hate to call it that, immediately smelled of both the can it came from and being kept in a terribly overheated steam well. The texture was mushy. I thought back to the many times I had drunkenly cursed the chili at Waffle House and wished I had it now. We took our time eating in near silence; a couple of chefs had no business being here. Clearly whichever one had erstwhile made the dishes in the pictures online had cleared out long ago. We had truly been catfished by the photos from this establishment. The slamming of a microwave door sporadically pierced the silence as our food was being prepared, if you can call it that. After 10 or so minutes of suffering through the microwave slams and awfultizers our food came out. "Grilled pork chops" with fried okra for me, "meatloaf" with mashed potatoes and glazed carrots for my friend. We were both intending to opt for the field peas as a side but naturally they were out. Probably for the best as they were most assuredly from a can as well. A pair of pathetic petite precooked pork chops peered at me with their painted-on fake grill marks. An anhydrous amalgam of unassuming meatloaf - meatlump? meatblob? - greeted my associate. I tried to pierce a pork chop with my fork Once. Twice. Thrice. An armadillo-like shell had formed on the chop - likely due to the overambitious efforts of their employee of the month, chef Mic Rowave. I briefly contemplated how sweet the barrel of my .357 would taste instead of this. I pressed on, drenching the dessicated porcine product with the ancient bottle of hot sauce they had so mercifully given. Why did the giant pork chop in the pictures online look so tender, juicy and well seasoned? What crime against god had I committed to deserve this? As my teeth attempted to tear through the tough outer hide I thought of all the bad things I had ever said about Picadilly and how sorry I was for them. My friend asked me to try the glazed carrots, which I ignored. He asked again. I ignored again. He insisted once again so I reluctantly acquiesced. The sorry overcooked baby carrot had apparently been stewed in Dollar Tree breakfast syrup to the brink of structural failure; a great ennui overtook me immediately. He struggled to cut his overcooked meatlump with a knife. I hazarded a taste of the pre-breaded fried okra. Neither of us were happy with the end result. There was no flavor of the vegetable itself. Merely the overbearing breading and oil flavor remained. My friend said the mashed potatoes were actually good though the gravy was from a package. I have to assume they were boil-in-bag as we clearly held more culinary talent in our amygdalae than was present in the entirety of their kitchen. The echo of the microwave door slamming permeated through the silence as if to mock us. They asked if we wanted any dessert, the words playfully scribbled on a dry erase board. They almost sounded good in their description, but enough was enough. No we didn't want any dehydrated bread pudding or microwaved premade creme brulee. This was the worst meal I have ever eaten. Years of therapy may finally put this atrocity behind me but I fear I will be scarred for life. The proprietors of this "restaurant" need to be tried at The Hague for crimes against humanity. If I put my shotgun in my mouth with my toe on the trigger tonight, I know exactly what my final words will be. Fuck Cafe Bouchee. read more
