THE TWSB RESTAURANT REVIEW

Striving to become a full-service blog, Tea With S.B. introduces a new feature - the restaurant review. To handle this assignment, we reached out to the United Queendom and lured noted gastro-gnome, A. Anton Grot over to the United States to sample the cuisine of one of Britain's more notable colonies. His brief will be to go to any city, region or neighborhood - incognito, of course - and order as many dishes as is required to give a fair and balanced opinion of the cooking on offer. We hope you will enjoy this vital and vicarious victual experience.
-The Editors.

"A TABLE NEAR THE TOILET" By A. Anton Grot

Le Chiot Malade ,147 Tex Ritter Highway, Thelma.

Finding good French food in France is a snap, requiring nothing more than going in to the first restaurant you see. Even cooking at a French hobo camp is superior to anything I've ever tried in the US. So it was with particular dread that I ventured out to Thelma to visit the newly-opened Le Chiot Malade, a fresh venture by the recently-exiled master chef, Gaston Merde. (It can be said of him that he never merited 4 Michelin Stars, but did begin his career on 4 Michelin Tires, as his first business was a frites wagon). After checking my eligibility for American hospital coverage, I asked an old girlfriend along to help with the review. (Not wishing to kiss-and-tell, I will refer to her as The Wench). She's very good company and will eat just about anything. Also, she makes up some wicked limericks which she'll gladly recite in a loud, faux-Norwegian accent (especially after she's had a few).

Teething troubles are nothing new for a upstart enterprise, and the look of a just-opened restaurant can be a tip-off. The decor of Le Chiot Malade is sort of high-concept-meets-low-bank account, which can sometimes work, but not here. It begins well at the front with an elegant combination of adobe and hammered copper, but about half-way towards the back, the walls suddenly shift to a 1960's-style pink flocked wallpaper, which, it must be said, goes well with the plastic patio tables and beanbag chairs. But as you reach the back of the room, you're surrounded by glued-to-the-drywall pages of The Fort Worth Star-Telegraph while sitting on filched milk crates with your plate on your lap. The lighting throughout is harsh and industrial, and makes everyone there look like an extra from David Lynch's Eraserhead. I know start-up money is tight these days, and contractors in this area usually demand cash on the nail, but blowing the decorating budget even before you get to the bar area is unforgivable. Artwork on the walls reeks of high-concept design too, with a tiny postcard of The Eiffel Tower in a huge gilt frame (as you might expect), which is supplemented by faded posters featuring The Leaning Tower Of Pisa, The Acropolis , The Kremlin and, oddly, Al Pacino as Scarface. However, we were here to eat, and we were eventually shown to our table in the half-eaten dining room, after a wait of only 1 hour. As the waitress (dressed in a green-day-glo Burka) handed us the menus, I told the Wench to order big, as this was for a review. But a quick glance at the menu revealed some difficult and disturbing choices. Chef Merde is one of those culinary anti-snobs who thinks Americans should broaden their choice of foods and branch out from the usual beef-chicken-pork-fish routine. The French eat everything that flies, crawls or swims, so I knew we were in for something of an adventure, but I didn't expect it to be Apollo 13.

For starters, I ordered the Seaside Seaweed Salad with Seahorse Croutons, a dish that self-respecting starving vultures would not go near. The Wench had the Earthworm Sashimi with Toadstool Couli, which she promptly regurgitated into her oversize handbag. (Thank goodness she decided on such a roomy purse, as I figured it was going to be a rough evening). I had the Soup de Rapport Officiel next, which tasted exactly like wallpaper paste (c'mon, you know you've tried it) and came with what I took to be a brush-shaped baguette. Later, I discovered that it was wallpaper paste with an actual wallpaper brush, as my order got mixed up with the decorator's supplies in a kitchen obviously still trying to find it's feet. The Wench skipped soup, as she was feeling a bit unwell (her greenish complexion beginning to compliment her fuchsia hair) and instead tried a glass of the house wine, which the server had decanted from what looked suspiciously like a thermos on which pour vider seulement was written in crayon. As for mains, the Fourmi Cuite was all right, but after plowing through the dense layers of puff pastry and ragweed, I was a little disappointed at the smallish ant and rather put off by it being placed in a carrot carved to look like a little coffin. The Wench mistakenly decided on Les Pis Fous de Vache, a grotesque pinwheel of cow's udders hanging from tiny meathooks, braised in what looked like a sauce made from cat's hairballs. One bite of this, and the Wench was off to the toilets, and I never saw her again for the rest of the meal. Reluctantly, I tried dessert, and plumped for La Maison le Gateau Special which turned out to be chocolate-covered burnt toast with a half-melted creamsicle (stick still in) planted in the middle, surrounded by cooking twine cut-offs marinated in what I hoped was only pickle juice. Original, I'll give them that (the French let rien go to waste), but horrific.

As the dishes were cleared away, I began dreading the bill for this gastronomic nightmare - the menu prices looked like a spreadsheet from the Wall Street Bailout plan - and wondered where the Wench had gotten to. Suddenly, I looked out the window and saw her behind the wheel of our car, pulling up to the front of the restaurant and waving for me to hurry up and jump in. Apparently, she had recovered enough to escape through a low window in the ladies' room and make her way to the parking lot. I bolted for the door and just made the car as she floored the accelerator and screeched onto Tex Ritter Highway, expertly weaving around oncoming ambulances and running a series of 'pink' lights. It was then I remembered how she was a lousy lay but a very, very good driver.

Rating: 1 Stomach Pump (out of 4)