A Short Review

Where the Wild Things Are
by Will Pooley, 2009

It sure ain’t easy pleasing everyone in the competitive world of themed restaurants, but the surprising thing is just how well The Texas Roadhouse seems to be doing just that in town. I say ‘surprising’ because both times I have been, the group I was with have ended up sitting in silence, staring at the rubbish-strewn floor as all around us the normally respectable citizens of Logan whooped, hollered and grunted in a scene reminiscent of the worst post-apocalyptic depictions of the decay of humanity. The thing is that in terms of all the important criteria, such as atmosphere, service, entertainment, drinks, food, and price, the Roadhouse seems to hit the spot for a wide public, yet I certainly found myself cringing, if not actively weeping.

You get a feel for this atmosphere before you step through the door. There are never any parking spaces, because the restaurant has opted for the cunning strategy of building a tiny car park, so that they always look busy. The faux Texan building beckoned to us as we walked from the car-park a few miles down the road. Slowly.

The closer we got, the louder the sound of the menagerie within. My dreams of a casual, relaxing, and friendly atmosphere rapidly faded. As we pushed open the door, we were confronted by the zoo itself.

At this point, it is legitimate to wonder how much your experience at the Roadhouse is going to be affected by its apparently widespread popularity. The queue was a long, drawn-out experience involving other people’s children. My eyes flicked between the little boys throwing peanuts at each other and the hunks of flesh proudly displayed under the counter. The waitress pulled me from my violent reverie by cheerily announcing that our table was ready.

As she led us through the restaurant, my worst fears about the atmosphere were realized. The decorations are clearly designed to reflect ‘authentic’ Texicana, but their actual effect is a mind-bending excursion into the debasement of the boundaries between human and animal, authentic and fake. I shuddered as we passed a stuffed armadillo clutching a bottle of beer. His beady eyes fixed on mine, and I think that he whispered, “Welcome to the Roadhouse.” Disbelieving, I reached out to touch his stomach: real hair, and it felt warm. The cacti, by contrast, were plastic, their spines soft and bendy, presumably for the benefit of the ape-children running between my feet. The floor was littered with peanut shells, and the other members of my party explained that the peanuts available in the barrels should be eaten, and their shells dropped directly to the floor.

I have seen this done before, by the chimps at London Zoo.

It has to be said that the waiting staff who served us both times were well skilled. They were friendly and enthusiastic, and tried to be as helpful as possible. Unfortunately, claiming that a particular dish is a ‘House Favorite’ comes off a bit fake when the restaurant has only been open a few days. I had the distinct feeling that the staff were coached in ready-made slippery phrases, such as, “Try the blended Margarita, it’s great!” If you respond to this question by asking what it’s like, their eyes get shifty and they admit that, being good Utah Mormons, they have never actually tried a Margarita, let alone the one in the restaurant which they got a job in a couple of days previously. In my slightly disturbed state of mind, this insincere good cheer appeared not a little ominous. Thoughts of Mini-Man, the satanic muleteer who lured Pinocchio into coming to Toyland and gradually turning into an ass, flashed through my mind. “If you spend long enough in the Roadhouse,” the waiters eyes seemed to say, “you’ll end up on someone’s plate.”
In fact, the waiting staff play the role of the demonic circus masters in this debased amphitheatre. Don’t be surprised if your ribs are delayed because the staff have suddenly put everything down to engage in a mechanistic and thoroughly unsettling line dance. Every forty five minutes, our waiter told us, they were expected to ‘perform’ a dance, though it’s hard to say if the owners of the restaurant expected their staff to do so with the fixed maniacal grins and rigid, robotical body movements which we saw. Still, I suppose the Dance of the Dead was popular with the other diners, who punctuated the display with various yelps and grunts. At one point, I thought that the man across from me was going to jump up and sink his teeth into the flesh of one of the dancers. He looked back at his plate instead, and returned to gnawing a suspiciously human rib bone.

The rest of the clientele genuinely seem to consider the whole affair good fun. The men tap their feet, wag their tails and paw at the available surfaces, the drool dribbling down their stubbly chins. The children crawl around under the tables, or stare glassy-eyed at the sports on the big screens, until, as if from nowhere, a mock horse is produced for someone’s birthday. Suddenly jeers and shouts go up from the surrounding tables, as the ‘lucky’ celebrant is bullied into riding the mock horse. Didn't the primitive populations of peasant Europe use to do this to adulterers? The ringmasters’ role in this proceeding is crucial. They stand on nearby tables, shouting orders at the compliant herd, who stomp and roar in return.

I didn’t find this mood appealing, but you can’t judge a restaurant by its bestial clientele and hellish atmosphere alone. In terms of the actual products that they serve, I wouldn’t recommend shelling out on the drinks since the Margaritas, for instance, are distinctly lacking in alcoholic content, and the beer list is fairly unexciting. I cannot imagine anyone drinking a glass of wine here, but if they did, I like to think it would be served to them in an animal’s skull. However, the food, on the other hand, is really worth the trip. The Roadhouse serves huge portions of meaty treats. Their website declares a simple mission: ‘great steaks, killer ribs and ice-cold beer at a price that families across America [can] afford’ (The Texas Roadhouse). The half rack of ribs could feed one of these hypothetical families for a year, and the pulled pork is of similarly huge dimensions. Both are sweet, meaty and soft, with big, brash American flavours. As I swallowed my first mouthful I screamed, “Yeehah!” (In my interior monologue, you understand.)

The sides are also impressive, providing a caricature of southern cuisine. Sweet potato comes with caramel and marshmallow loaded on top (?), and an ordinary baked potato comes with so many optional toppings that it would make an oversized meal on its own. The salads were crunchy and fresh, and the fries were hot and crisp. I think that it would be quite a feat to finish a whole main course and sides on your own, not least since even the most restrained nibbler will undoubtedly have tucked into a couple of those peanuts before their food arrives. I defy any human to resist the cinnamon rolls which are baked before the eyes of the customers waiting in the queue and then rushed to the tables. These rolls are soft, sweet and hot. Best of all, the supply of them is unlimited. If it was my restaurant, I would be tempted to call it the ‘Texas Roll and Ribs Place,’ but there’s probably a reason why I don’t own a franchise with over ‘310 locations in 44 states’ (The Texas Roadhouse). In the final say, it would be impossible to ignore the fact that even with a beer and a tip, you can leave the Roadhouse with change from $15. If, like some of my friends, you share one of the ample main courses, you can be in and out for under $10. Considering the quality and portion size of the food, this really is excellent value.

There’s a reason why the horde have made the Roadhouse their home. The quality of the food, and the value it represents must be important considerations for the families who make up most of the clientele. Who knows, maybe the hellish circus atmosphere of anthropomorphic animals and bestial humans even appeals to them. For me, this atmosphere and the whole style of the place is distinctly unsettling. Sitting at the table full of silent, despondent English majors, I wondered if this kind of thing isn’t aimed at people who don’t know how to make their own fun. Looking across at the perfectly normal looking young woman screaming and wobbling on the table next to us, I wondered if this is where librarians come to let their hair down.