Well, if you're seeing a review from me the place was either really good or really bad. Let's try to turn this into an opportunity to strengthen their operations. I don't live in Broadway but I was visiting my daughter who just had a baby and was craving some type of boneless chicken morsel. We both have had Gobbler Grill before and know they "usually" have reliable chicken cylinders. When I placed my order for a large stubbs and nubbs (the origin of this nomenclature is unknown) with buffalo sauce, salmon salad- hold the onion, and cheese sticks, I relied on the knowledge that at least two of the items are fried and it is really hard to mess up fried cuisine. But henceforth, it is possible. Suffice it to say, only the cheese sticks (the lowest level of importance in my opinion) were as described and ordered. Trigger alert...the salad description said there was shredded cheese. Did I just say cheese on a salmon salad? I did, and for the record I was giving it a chance. The difference between what I expected and received was as wide as Victoria Lake (can you hear Sade singing in the background). Imagine this, a hot piece of salmon that was as hard as a hockey puck, on top of a molten mountain of cheese that had melted and congealed as if it had become one with the 10 pieces of brown, wilted, aged lettuce. The lettuce that was there reminded me of the discard pile that is given to hogs or free-range chickens at mealtime. Not humans. It was at this moment I realized that cheese, does in fact, NEVER belong with fish. I know, I know what you're thinking. As a home chef I know these mythical witchcraft rules but as I said, I was giving it a chance. Nevermore, nevermore. The Raven was right! Last incongruence and I will move on as I am sure anyone who is reading this wonders when that is going to happen. My closing thought on the pile of steaming lettuce lava is that never, have I ever, been given salmon on a salad with the shiny, scaled skin beneath it. I think someone in the kitchen was practicing for comedy hour and decided this would be good material for their turn on the microphone. Maybe this is why the lady who took the order said they were discontinuing that item on the menu. They need to delete, backspace, erase, undo, and clear this item from over leaving their kitchen again. Oh, and remember I said hold the onions? Do I even need to say it? Yes, there were onions on it.
On to the next scab from my GG wound. Buffalo sauce is a fairly common, pedestrian, recognizable, obvious slathering paste. We all know what it looks like, smells like, tastes like and we pick it for that very reason. Upon arrival to the structure, I noticed a sign that instructed patrons to check their take-out orders for accuracy and completeness. So, as a good samaritan, I followed the instructions. The onion situation mentioned above was noted and dismissed. Upon opening the hot, steamy container of S & N's, the indisputable aroma of another every day, recognizable, obvious substance known on Earth as BBQ sauce, hit my olfactory nerve instantly. This would not be dismissed. So, I looked at the nice lady and said that is "BBQ sauce but I ordered buffalo." The idealogue quickly turned the container around and stuck her nasal passages overhead and said with insistent righteousness "oh no, that is buffalo...I don't like spicey and I can smell the spiciness." I was contemplating how I, as an infrequent diner, would be able to dismantle her credo. Impossible. I paused, took a breath, reflected on all the times I had indulged in both types of liquids on my chicken barrels, and made the incorrect and naïve assumption that my loss of taste and smell from 3 rounds of COVID had obviously emerged. I had to accept that I was wrong. I put my invisible tail between my legs and assumed my questioning of the sauce was not only an insult, but also uncalled for. I squared up like a compliant imbecile (even left a tip for the wizard of sauce) and took the heaping pile of sauced solids back to my daughter's house with excitement knowing her craving would be sated. At that point, I was super happy because I swiped a cheese stick from the container on the ride back and enjoyed the savor of a decently fried hunk of cheese. Upon entering the domicile, I quickly arranged the containers on the couch next to my daughter who had her 1-week old infant suckling on her own version of a chicken tender, gave her a fork and napkin to catch the slurry, and told her to dig in. My daughter took the fork and pierced a chunk. The chicken bolus hit her mouth and then she smiled. Her next words were like hearing Santa's sleigh as a kid when your parents hoodwink you into believing he's real. Well, he's not and neither was the so called "buffalo sauce." She looked at me and spewed veriloquent words..."this is BBQ sauce." Done. read more
