Getting Drunk at America’s Finest Chain Restaurants
Perhaps it’s my advancing age, my predilection for playing the sourpuss, or merely my growing disinterest in ceremony of any sort, but I’d rather eat in the shit end of a strip mall than get gussied up for a night on the town in the kind of genericly chic hotspots that now litter America’s cities. The lamentations of my colleagues as far afield as London over the insidious creeping dread of gentrification are now as familiar to journalism as Beyonce think-pieces, pointless aggregation of Daily Showclips, and Oxford commas.
We’ve bitched about gentrification’s florid fare and prentitious air of exclusion, but what’s the alternative? The aggressive gourmet flatulence of trendy urban neighborhoods makes me long for the affordable, bland, but comforting chain restaurants of my youth. I’m talking about the kind of place where the ads implore you to “let your hair down,” “unwind,” and “be family."
Those sentiments seem trite, but are actually what we crave the most, especially here in America. We want to belong, we want to be accepted, and we want to get drunk on cheap liquor. Those aren’t virtues anymore when fancy gastropubs charge $17 for a burger and $8 for a pint of beer. We are being robbed of the one thing that makes us American: our love of inexpensive, generic bullshit.
The first Denny’s in Manhattan opened last week, and features a $300 version of their popular Grand Slam meal that comes with a bottle of Dom Perignon. We can’t even pray at the altar of the classic American diner without being reminded of what we don’t have. Are well-heeled day traders in Manhattan going to pop in for bacon and eggs, with a side of champagne? What’s next, a Happy Meal that comes with an XBox?
Reveling in popular culture, while also suckling at the sweet, sparkling teat of opulance is de rigueur these days. Restaurants sell gussied up versions of comfort food and charge through the nose for it. But what about just having normal comfort food? Can’t I just pleasure myself on top of a greasy plate of "grub” while knocking back a few discounted Happy Hour beverages? Thatbeautiful disaster exists solely in the safe, sanitized vortex of the suburban chain restaurant.
Since most of the people that spoke up were either 1) north of North Ave or 2) around Brady St, we’ve decided to start in the north end of the eastside and make our way south over the course of the day. This seems fair, as some folks will have an easier trek in the morning, while others will have it easier at the end of the day. That being said, we gotta start everything off with some bloodies and Hollander is as good a place as any to do so. (Plus they have wifi. Yay, wifi!)
Cafe Hollander // 2608 N Downer Ave // Milwaukee // Feb 2nd // 10:30 AM
From there, we’ll use the Tumblrs, Facebooks, and Twitters to organize and send out updates. Just like in Egypt, but for drinking. (Too soon? Too soon.) So, if you can’t make it in the AM just follow along and meet up with us elsewhere!
Be warm, stay safe, and hopefully we’ll see a number of you out over the course of the day!
Eating supernoodles, drinking red wine and feeling sorry for myself.
Because I’m too ill to go to Frank Morton.
That being the 50th anniversary of the national Chemical Engineering sports day being held at my University for the first time in years.
I spent my entire morning trying to make 19 netball teams play all 4 of each of their matches at the right place at the right time. ¾ of the other stewards had bailed out, and we had no umpires or bibs, and I was the only one on the stewarding team who actually knew how to play netball. It was ridiculous.
After 5 hours outside in the cold with nowhere to sit down and half my time yelling at the top of my lungs and being asked questions I couldn’t answer, I came home exhausted. Then a fever sprung up and now I’m aching all over and I feel nauseous while my class are in town on the free Frank Morton bar crawl, drinking and having an awesome time.
I just want to curl up and hibernate for a couple weeks now.