Restaurant Review: "The Road House Bar & Grill"

Disclaimer: I have never eaten at “The Road House Bar & Grill.”

We did not eat out last night. My wife made a delicious zucchini and pesto pizza, which was surely better than almost anything we could have ordered at a local restaurant. So, I am glad we did not go out for dinner. Even if we had, I’m sure we would not have chosen “The Road House Bar & Grill,” located at 1501 Centerpark Rd. First of all, I've never heard of Centerpark Rd., but it sure sounds far away. And second, “The Road House Bar & Grill”? Are you kidding me?

So, we did not arrive at the “Road House Bar & Grill” at around seven o’clock and we were not greeted by a hostess named Naomi, wearing a cowboy hat and boots and a skirt so short that my wife was scowling at me even before I noticed it. But, for the purposes of the rest of this review, let’s just say we did.

So, let’s just say that Naomi led us to our table and gave us our menus and told us that . . . Pamela would be our waitress tonight and she would be here shortly to take our drink orders. Sure enough, Pamela arrived promptly, also dressed in cowgirl-themed uniform, wearing a very tight western shirt that she apparently was unable to button all the way up, poor girl. We ordered our usual: “Two Bombay Sapphire martinis, very dry, gently shaken, one with an olive and one naked.”

“‘Naked’?” my wife said. “That’s a new touch.”

“Just trying it out,” I said. “What do you think?”

“I think I like it.”

Which would have been a nice moment to propose a toast and have a drink, but our drinks had not yet arrived. In the distance, over the country music on the jukebox, and the clacking of pool balls, I heard aggressive the shaking of a cocktail shaker, and cringed.

“What is it, Honey?”

“He’s shaking the shit out of those martinis, goddamn it. I did say ‘gently shaken,’ didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. But don’t worry. everything will be fine.”

But sure enough, when Pamela returned, the drinks were cloudy. I didn’t say anything, though. No use getting started off on the wrong foot. I forced a smile as she set the drinks down. And then I tasted my drink. “Oh Good Lord!”

“Oh no,” said my wife, “They didn’t . . .”

“Oh, they did all right. Olive brine! Goddamn them!”

I took the drinks to the bar. The bartender, wearing a black hat and leather vest and a star-shaped name tag with “Josh” written in magic marker on it, said, “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” I said. “It appears there has been a misunderstanding regarding our drinks.”

“What do you mean?”

“These . . . drinks. They have olive brine in them.”

Josh nodded and smiled. “Yep. Dirty Martinis. Just like you ordered.”

“I assure you, I did not order anything of the sort. In fact, you might notice that I ordered one of the martinis without olives at all . . .”

Josh found the order slip, looked at it, and then pounded the bar with fists that were much bigger than I'd originally noticed. “Goddamn that Pamela!”

“I’m sure it was just an honest mistake.”

“You have no idea,” he said, and unceremoniously dumped the drinks out. “I assure you, Sir, we will make this right for you.”

When Pamela brought our replacement drinks, her eyes were red and she was wiping tears from her face. “I hope these are okay,” she sniffled. They were not. Although unpolluted with olive brine, they were over-shaken, cloudy, icy, eventually watery.

By now, of course, no one was in the mood for dinner, but it came nonetheless. My steak was overcooked and chewy. My wife’s salmon looked fine from where I was sitting, but she did not comment on it. As we finished chewing and swallowing, a fight broke out over a pool game (or at least, near a pool table). Punches were thrown, pool cues and beer bottles were broken and used as weapons, the police were called. We passed on dessert, left too large a tip, and made it outside just as the police cruisers arrived.

Overall, I would give “The Road House Bar & Grill” a C-. Had I ever actually eaten there, I’m pretty sure I would not eat there again.