Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Restaurant Review: Mother Tuckers

Ok, so I've been here many times. I grew up in Calgary, and this place has been around since before Woody Allen fucked his daughter.

A friend and I decided to go out for dinner, and he left the restaurant up to me. What shall I choose?

Being a red-blooded Canadian girl, I like a piece of meat between my teeth. Steak. But where?

"Hey Ryan, we haven't been to Mother Tuckers in a while. You wanna meet there at 6?" "Sure", he concedes, and the date is set.

Now, a little background: Said friend and I go way back to Grade 8, when one day, he walked into my homeroom classroom wearing a T-shirt that read "Ask me about my cat", with a picture of a kitten peeking out of a coffee mug. I commented on how much I loved it (still do), and we have been friends for lo these past 15 years.

We go out to dinner whenever he's in town (flight attendant), and Mother Tuckers has been one of our 'places' for many years. But for some reason, we stopped visiting the establishment about a year ago. Memory provides no apparent motive, hence my (ill-fated) decision to return.
That was mistake number one. Mistake number two came when we sat down, ordered our dinner via the transgendered server, and skipped off to the salad bar.

Horrors. Absolute horrors. Apparently, since we've been away, the restaurant has rented out much of it's salad bar to a family of fruit flies. I concetrated most of my attention of dry goods, such as croutons, and hoped for the best.

Shortly thereafter arrived the entrees. My scalloped potatoes were covered in brownish-tan chunks. Curious, I asked the server "What's this in the potatoes" and the prompt reply? "I don't know".

"Wait wait wait" I call after her as she walks away, "could you find out for me?" "Ya, ok" she agrees begrudgingly. Upon her return, I am informed of the ingredient in question: "Cheese" she says, "but probably way overcooked". Confident that this has cleared up any doubt surrounding the culinary merit of the dish, she again turns on her heel and walks away.

Left with nothing but my wits and "way overcooked" cheese, I err on the side of safety and decide not to consume the carbohydrate element of the meal. Focusing on my sirloin, I dig in. I didn't know it was possible for meat to be flavourless. Like, entirely deviod of flavour. I add salt. No dice. Pepper. Mmmm, my steak tastes like pepper now.

My friend fared mildly better, but his prime rib looked... off-colour. Nothing really obvious, but, you know when you look at someone's face and you just know they're about to puke? Now you see what I mean.

Upon procurement of the bill, I toddle off to pay my portion by means of debit. I ask the host "Where can I pay this on debit?" and he walks away. I follow. He turns around and sneers "No, wait over there, I'm going to go get it". A wireless debit machine! So modern. But he doesn't come back with a wireless debit machine. He comes back with a second copy of my bill. I explain I've already recieved it from the server. And-- here comes my favourite part of the evening-- he says "Well, you didn't have it in your hand when you came up to me the first time!" and snatches it from my hands. Not having moved more than two feet from where he left me, I certainly did have the bill in my hand. Stunned by the sheer rudeness, I handed him my debit card. He swipes, I punch away, and the transaction is completed.

Later, in the movie theatre, my friend's stomach starts to hurt. Big fucking suprise.

Rating: 2 fluorescent dinner rolls out of 5