Captain D.'s Profile
Date
2179 Lawrenceville Hwy
Decatur, GA 30033
(404) 636-4400
Decatur, GA 30033
(404) 636-4400
Saravana Bhavan
Categories:
Indian,
Vegetarian
This den of vegetarian confoundery provided Yours Truly with one of the most disappointing dining experiences this side of the Magellanic Cloud, which was, frankly, FANTASTIC (if you're a fan of bad reviews).
Not since the Great Hairy Bread Expedition of 1873 have I been as excited to relate my experiences about a slop hall as I am now with Madras Saravana Bhavan, located Nor'Noreast of Decatarrrr, Georgia.
I arrived to find my dining companions, Dwight and Barbara, studiously wading through two large and sticky color catalogs filled with images of food with exotic names like Tug and Bandr and Prath and yes, of course I'm making these names up because the REAL names are so bloody exotic that they flew out of my mind as soon as I read them out of those filthy (yet colorful) menus which served as our passport to the world of vegetarian Indian cuisine.
"I'm afraid to drink the water," announced Barbara, eyeing the tepid pitcher with a wrinkled nose.
"Barbara," I scolded, "may I remind you that you're in Decatarrr, not India?"
Her eyes said "You sure about that Buster?"
After 20 minutes of anxious waiting a man with a notepad ambled by our prominent corner booth, muttering something under his breath which sounded suspiciously like "You are here and I am here, and I could bring you food but if you do not tell me what it is that you would wish to be eating I will skulk away, not to return for a period of time greater than or equal to your ability to politely pretend that I did not in fact move to Buenos Aires."
But it came out "Buh. Mugga Wug. Buh.
More or less. He may have even sighed.
I have to admit that I felt bad for the poor fellow, standing there in his blue jeans and plaid shirt, loathing our very presence. Wait, not loathing... what's that other word that means that you wouldn't give a fig if a 5 gigaton mega-hippo landed on your head?
That word.
Walter was all about that word. (I'd named him Walter, quietly, to myself)
So.
Walter was probably just grumpy and hot. He had to be hot because it was obvious that the owners of this particular Burma railway had, in a bid to replicate various regions of the Indian subcontinent during the summer doldrums, shut down the air-conditioning system entirely. More likely, they'd sold it for parts in order to pay for the magnificently colored (yet sticky) menu system that was currently bedeviling us all.
Before Walter could escape back to wherever it was that he normally hid, we shouted out orders in rapid succession. In a monotone drone Walter repeated our orders back to us, though he could have just as easily been reading from the Bombay railway timetables... we just moved our heads in that circular motion which is neither a yes or a no, but the intergalactic sign of utter bewilderment when you don't understand someone but think that you'd best pretend you do.
For the next 45 minutes food came out to our table in dribs and drabs, delivered by a man who would announce the dish's title as:
"Mumb-lemum-bulum"
Whereupon he would lurch off toward the kitchen like a man whose 2-story cow has just washed away in a flood, leaving him cowless.
We, of course, would take turns guessing who the dish belonged to because our waiters certainly didn't seem to know.
Dwight decided that the very first dish to arrive was his (mostly, I suspect because he was hungrier than Barbara or me) and so munched away happily at a grotty little doughnut surrounded by spoonfuls of strange sauces with names like "bright green" and "lumpy yellow". 15 minutes later he and Barbara decided that he had, in fact, been eating one of HER orders at which point he promptly slid the depleted platter over to her so that she could enjoy picking through the remains.
Meanwhile, BOTH of Barbara's orders arrived, leading she and Dwight to conclude that the original mystery dish had in fact been intended for ME. Barbara gamely tried to freshen the sad platter up as she pushed it in my direction, but I was already deep into a curried bowl of vegetables and astrally projecting myself into a Krystal's burger hut, 200 yards farther up the highway.
Meanwhile, the food continued to arrive with guttural mumblings from skulking waiters.
After lunch we lingered another 20 minutes, not because we were enjoying the ambience but because we were waiting for our sodding BILL!
We finally gave up and went to the register where we encountered a sad little fellow who obviously did not wish us to engage him in conversation.
When Barbara did inquire with him regarding the possibility of obtaining a to-go box, the little fellow stared at her as if she'd sprouted an additional Crown Prince of Liechtenstein from her forehead (you know, to balance the one he already seemed to think was growing there).
I also had the percussive poopsies later on, in the privacy of my own poopdeck.
An authentic experience indeed.
Not since the Great Hairy Bread Expedition of 1873 have I been as excited to relate my experiences about a slop hall as I am now with Madras Saravana Bhavan, located Nor'Noreast of Decatarrrr, Georgia.
I arrived to find my dining companions, Dwight and Barbara, studiously wading through two large and sticky color catalogs filled with images of food with exotic names like Tug and Bandr and Prath and yes, of course I'm making these names up because the REAL names are so bloody exotic that they flew out of my mind as soon as I read them out of those filthy (yet colorful) menus which served as our passport to the world of vegetarian Indian cuisine.
"I'm afraid to drink the water," announced Barbara, eyeing the tepid pitcher with a wrinkled nose.
"Barbara," I scolded, "may I remind you that you're in Decatarrr, not India?"
Her eyes said "You sure about that Buster?"
After 20 minutes of anxious waiting a man with a notepad ambled by our prominent corner booth, muttering something under his breath which sounded suspiciously like "You are here and I am here, and I could bring you food but if you do not tell me what it is that you would wish to be eating I will skulk away, not to return for a period of time greater than or equal to your ability to politely pretend that I did not in fact move to Buenos Aires."
But it came out "Buh. Mugga Wug. Buh.
More or less. He may have even sighed.
I have to admit that I felt bad for the poor fellow, standing there in his blue jeans and plaid shirt, loathing our very presence. Wait, not loathing... what's that other word that means that you wouldn't give a fig if a 5 gigaton mega-hippo landed on your head?
That word.
Walter was all about that word. (I'd named him Walter, quietly, to myself)
So.
Walter was probably just grumpy and hot. He had to be hot because it was obvious that the owners of this particular Burma railway had, in a bid to replicate various regions of the Indian subcontinent during the summer doldrums, shut down the air-conditioning system entirely. More likely, they'd sold it for parts in order to pay for the magnificently colored (yet sticky) menu system that was currently bedeviling us all.
Before Walter could escape back to wherever it was that he normally hid, we shouted out orders in rapid succession. In a monotone drone Walter repeated our orders back to us, though he could have just as easily been reading from the Bombay railway timetables... we just moved our heads in that circular motion which is neither a yes or a no, but the intergalactic sign of utter bewilderment when you don't understand someone but think that you'd best pretend you do.
For the next 45 minutes food came out to our table in dribs and drabs, delivered by a man who would announce the dish's title as:
"Mumb-lemum-bulum"
Whereupon he would lurch off toward the kitchen like a man whose 2-story cow has just washed away in a flood, leaving him cowless.
We, of course, would take turns guessing who the dish belonged to because our waiters certainly didn't seem to know.
Dwight decided that the very first dish to arrive was his (mostly, I suspect because he was hungrier than Barbara or me) and so munched away happily at a grotty little doughnut surrounded by spoonfuls of strange sauces with names like "bright green" and "lumpy yellow". 15 minutes later he and Barbara decided that he had, in fact, been eating one of HER orders at which point he promptly slid the depleted platter over to her so that she could enjoy picking through the remains.
Meanwhile, BOTH of Barbara's orders arrived, leading she and Dwight to conclude that the original mystery dish had in fact been intended for ME. Barbara gamely tried to freshen the sad platter up as she pushed it in my direction, but I was already deep into a curried bowl of vegetables and astrally projecting myself into a Krystal's burger hut, 200 yards farther up the highway.
Meanwhile, the food continued to arrive with guttural mumblings from skulking waiters.
After lunch we lingered another 20 minutes, not because we were enjoying the ambience but because we were waiting for our sodding BILL!
We finally gave up and went to the register where we encountered a sad little fellow who obviously did not wish us to engage him in conversation.
When Barbara did inquire with him regarding the possibility of obtaining a to-go box, the little fellow stared at her as if she'd sprouted an additional Crown Prince of Liechtenstein from her forehead (you know, to balance the one he already seemed to think was growing there).
I also had the percussive poopsies later on, in the privacy of my own poopdeck.
An authentic experience indeed.
131 E Ponce De Leon Ave
Decatur, GA 30030
(404) 687-0500
Decatur, GA 30030
(404) 687-0500
Leon's Full Service
Categories:
Gastropubs,
American (Traditional)
Neighborhood: Decatur
Mr. Leon,
It has been quite some time since I've had the opportunity to scrawl out a review of any earthside dining establishments and I would beg apology if anything which follows provides effrontery to you in any fashion whatsoever. Your servants were obsequious to a fault. Your food was in no way burned to a crisp or rendered inedible due to incompetence from your fine galley crew. Your beer was refreshing, the ambience of your filling station was friendly.
In truth, I were cajoled into writing this review by a certain vegetarian lass what accompanied me to dine in your filling station several weeks ago when your town was encamped by gypsy tents filled with tacky, overpriced wares (aka The Decatur Arts Festicle).
Says she (the wench): "Why don't you write a review of this place?" whilst emitting a highly confusing series of grimaces, smiles, frowns, hoots and partial nudity.
In truth, she did none of these things (except the constant grimacing and frowning, which I attribute more to the strained and complex relationship I share with her) but I did rather hope that the promise of a tale of "partial nudity" might reduce the impact of the disappointment you are about to experience when you discover that I, Captain Drew, found your brisket profoundly unexciting.
That's right.
Un.
Ex.
Cite.
Ing.
In fact, I haven't been this unexcited by brisket since the Lesser Brisket Uprising of 1734, and that's saying something, Buster. I'd have been far less disappointed if your menu had referred to this sandwich with the more accurate description of "Watery Steamed Beef" because in the sector of space/time I hail from brisket is an art form of texture and subtle moisture, intense flavor and sustained emotion.
Your very nice beer had more texture than the Soupy Bovine Sandwich I dined upon.
Now.
Having properly and rightfully informed you of my disappointments in front of God and Man alike, I would like to end this rebuke with some very real praise: your tater sauces are clever as brickbats!! From the reviews that others have left I do see that the smoked tomato mayo is universally appreciated. From a mouth feel perspective, all of the mayonnaise-based sauces we shared were mouth smackers. In addition to those I found the curries interesting, but they did compete far too much with the sharp acidity of the catsup.
Also, I could not locate a RUM flavored dipping sauce? Was this an oversight?
And finally, Mr. Leon, you are no businessman.
Why are you not calling your filling station "Mr. Leon's Filling Station of Many Flavored Crisps"??? You would sell an immense number of taters in this fashion, which would provide you with enough money to chase those kids and their wooden balls out of your side yard. Ruffians.
And no, if you must know.... I didn't "get any" and probably never shall again from that particular grimacing lassie.
Oh, Brisket!!
It has been quite some time since I've had the opportunity to scrawl out a review of any earthside dining establishments and I would beg apology if anything which follows provides effrontery to you in any fashion whatsoever. Your servants were obsequious to a fault. Your food was in no way burned to a crisp or rendered inedible due to incompetence from your fine galley crew. Your beer was refreshing, the ambience of your filling station was friendly.
In truth, I were cajoled into writing this review by a certain vegetarian lass what accompanied me to dine in your filling station several weeks ago when your town was encamped by gypsy tents filled with tacky, overpriced wares (aka The Decatur Arts Festicle).
Says she (the wench): "Why don't you write a review of this place?" whilst emitting a highly confusing series of grimaces, smiles, frowns, hoots and partial nudity.
In truth, she did none of these things (except the constant grimacing and frowning, which I attribute more to the strained and complex relationship I share with her) but I did rather hope that the promise of a tale of "partial nudity" might reduce the impact of the disappointment you are about to experience when you discover that I, Captain Drew, found your brisket profoundly unexciting.
That's right.
Un.
Ex.
Cite.
Ing.
In fact, I haven't been this unexcited by brisket since the Lesser Brisket Uprising of 1734, and that's saying something, Buster. I'd have been far less disappointed if your menu had referred to this sandwich with the more accurate description of "Watery Steamed Beef" because in the sector of space/time I hail from brisket is an art form of texture and subtle moisture, intense flavor and sustained emotion.
Your very nice beer had more texture than the Soupy Bovine Sandwich I dined upon.
Now.
Having properly and rightfully informed you of my disappointments in front of God and Man alike, I would like to end this rebuke with some very real praise: your tater sauces are clever as brickbats!! From the reviews that others have left I do see that the smoked tomato mayo is universally appreciated. From a mouth feel perspective, all of the mayonnaise-based sauces we shared were mouth smackers. In addition to those I found the curries interesting, but they did compete far too much with the sharp acidity of the catsup.
Also, I could not locate a RUM flavored dipping sauce? Was this an oversight?
And finally, Mr. Leon, you are no businessman.
Why are you not calling your filling station "Mr. Leon's Filling Station of Many Flavored Crisps"??? You would sell an immense number of taters in this fashion, which would provide you with enough money to chase those kids and their wooden balls out of your side yard. Ruffians.
And no, if you must know.... I didn't "get any" and probably never shall again from that particular grimacing lassie.
Oh, Brisket!!
Arriving in Paradise scant days before Christmas you'd expect the rangy wenches haunting this shack to be overjoyed to see paying customers stumble across their threshold a quarter past four in the afternoon, which exactly what they didn't do.
The bottle of gruff they be swilling had dampened their holiday spirit, clearly at odds with the pop music boiling out of the Audiovox radio dangling precariously over the grease pit through which every single menu item would be eventually dragged.
I wondered to myself "Did Franklin Delano Roosevelt dine regularly at The Paradise Grill? Was this a place the former President would swing round to after a dip in the legendary healing waters of Warm Springs?"
My excitement at dining in the footsteps of history was running high.
As the serving hag literally jerked the menu out of my hands and flipped it over to show me the drinks menu, my expectations fell back to earth as I realized that I had in fact stepped into the den of a coven of wizened fishwives, legendary for their murderous skill with a shorthand spatula.
At this point I employed space pirate rule #37: never agitate a cabinperson what has the ability to add mouth drizzle to your plate before it hits the plank in front of you.
Sweet as pie, sweet as pie I were.
"Yes m'am, no m'am, tastes so good!" I responded as a schooled child to a blousy school marm.
My burger? Of the variety you'd expect at a summertime swimming hole. My onion rings? Hard shells of flour around wizened strings of onion-like material, but let's be fair: very few restaurants can accomplish a tasty onion ring that can compare to that of Atlantarrr's Varsity chain of restaurants.
The Paradise Grill at Christmastime is not something that I would recommend to bands of roving gourmands, but I did keep my burger and rings down in me gullet, and truth be told I'd quite like to return in the heat of summertime to experience these fishwives fare as Warm Spring's tourist season returns to full swing.
The bottle of gruff they be swilling had dampened their holiday spirit, clearly at odds with the pop music boiling out of the Audiovox radio dangling precariously over the grease pit through which every single menu item would be eventually dragged.
I wondered to myself "Did Franklin Delano Roosevelt dine regularly at The Paradise Grill? Was this a place the former President would swing round to after a dip in the legendary healing waters of Warm Springs?"
My excitement at dining in the footsteps of history was running high.
As the serving hag literally jerked the menu out of my hands and flipped it over to show me the drinks menu, my expectations fell back to earth as I realized that I had in fact stepped into the den of a coven of wizened fishwives, legendary for their murderous skill with a shorthand spatula.
At this point I employed space pirate rule #37: never agitate a cabinperson what has the ability to add mouth drizzle to your plate before it hits the plank in front of you.
Sweet as pie, sweet as pie I were.
"Yes m'am, no m'am, tastes so good!" I responded as a schooled child to a blousy school marm.
My burger? Of the variety you'd expect at a summertime swimming hole. My onion rings? Hard shells of flour around wizened strings of onion-like material, but let's be fair: very few restaurants can accomplish a tasty onion ring that can compare to that of Atlantarrr's Varsity chain of restaurants.
The Paradise Grill at Christmastime is not something that I would recommend to bands of roving gourmands, but I did keep my burger and rings down in me gullet, and truth be told I'd quite like to return in the heat of summertime to experience these fishwives fare as Warm Spring's tourist season returns to full swing.
After a brief, unfortunate and inglorious adventure upon a planet of singing pigs I thought that my most madcap set of escapades were surely complete.... but then I was reminded by one of me crew that Mother's Day was nigh upon us and that I'd collected nary one blackstar ruby nor moonflower for me dear old Mum.
Quite an embarrassing predicament for the king of the space pirates.
You cannot imagine my surprise when I landed squarely upon the doorstep of this tiny 22 year old shoppe in this tiniest of tiny towns.
Its unassuming storefront disguises a most wretched hive of antique tea cuppery, vintage quiltery, handmade goat soapery (I've never washed our goat), artisinal jewelry, handmade pillowery, a range of garden wonderments and an arsenal of dangerous-looking antique kitchen implements secreted in its basement, ranged deep in the bowels below Palmetto.
This brilliant woman-trap, this "Den of Estrogen" whose lady-attracting abilities easily surpass anything I shall ever be able to craft (as most of my attempts at wooing the fairer sex involve me removing my breeches whilst singing schoolboy rhymes about certain aspects of my anatomy), is surely a most dangerous place for real men to tread.
My own skin didst begin to burn as I prowled about the shoppe, looking for a magic gift to assure that I possess me dear old Mum's love for yet another year.
And then!! I spied a lovely lavender-tinted necklace of freshwater pearls in an old hutch and I screamed "Please, for the love of all that is manly, take my gold and allow me to depart this bewitched locale NOW, before I accidentally learn another thing about antique porcelain!!"
Happily, the gift was a hit and me dear old Mum loves me still.
Quite an embarrassing predicament for the king of the space pirates.
You cannot imagine my surprise when I landed squarely upon the doorstep of this tiny 22 year old shoppe in this tiniest of tiny towns.
Its unassuming storefront disguises a most wretched hive of antique tea cuppery, vintage quiltery, handmade goat soapery (I've never washed our goat), artisinal jewelry, handmade pillowery, a range of garden wonderments and an arsenal of dangerous-looking antique kitchen implements secreted in its basement, ranged deep in the bowels below Palmetto.
This brilliant woman-trap, this "Den of Estrogen" whose lady-attracting abilities easily surpass anything I shall ever be able to craft (as most of my attempts at wooing the fairer sex involve me removing my breeches whilst singing schoolboy rhymes about certain aspects of my anatomy), is surely a most dangerous place for real men to tread.
My own skin didst begin to burn as I prowled about the shoppe, looking for a magic gift to assure that I possess me dear old Mum's love for yet another year.
And then!! I spied a lovely lavender-tinted necklace of freshwater pearls in an old hutch and I screamed "Please, for the love of all that is manly, take my gold and allow me to depart this bewitched locale NOW, before I accidentally learn another thing about antique porcelain!!"
Happily, the gift was a hit and me dear old Mum loves me still.
736 Ponce De Leon Avenue
Atlanta, GA 30306
(404) 254-1176
Atlanta, GA 30306
(404) 254-1176
The Book House Pub
Category:
Pubs
Neighborhoods: Virginia Highland, Old Fourth Ward
As expected, she's gotten more popular. We had to wait 8 minutes or so to be seated. Apparently the one feller in charge of handling new guests had stepped away to smoke 'pon his pipe, so a lass behind the bar had us to sign a promissory on a future seat. Two lassies sneaking into one of the SEVERAL empty seats were perfunctorily barked at by that same grog mistress, and they accordingly slunk back to the back of the line where they belonged. The wait-wenches were a bit slinky too, walking past the annoying new guests with their eyes averted, seriously, studiously carrying food back and forth to folks.
The rounded nook near the door features a faux fireplace, but it don't be all that warm in reality... urging fewer calories into the atmosphere than a Paris Hilton in full coitus. In fact, the empty rafters looming above this spot somehow route a steady stream of COLD air down 'pon your head if you elect to stand in this spot.... you've been warned by the Captain on this.
The food? Great.
How can you ruin a loaded baked potatoe?
Look it up, it *can* be spelled with an "e" you weinerheades.
If you be a carnivore, don't miss the spring rolls what be packed with collards. However!! Be sure you have some nice clean alone-time the next day, else you'll be having people think you let a hammerhead shark die inside your breeches. Yeeeowch.
The Lesson: good food and drink, not so much of a hospitality feel to the crew of this boat. Sure, they be busy, but do they have to look like they be morbidly constipooted?
The rounded nook near the door features a faux fireplace, but it don't be all that warm in reality... urging fewer calories into the atmosphere than a Paris Hilton in full coitus. In fact, the empty rafters looming above this spot somehow route a steady stream of COLD air down 'pon your head if you elect to stand in this spot.... you've been warned by the Captain on this.
The food? Great.
How can you ruin a loaded baked potatoe?
Look it up, it *can* be spelled with an "e" you weinerheades.
If you be a carnivore, don't miss the spring rolls what be packed with collards. However!! Be sure you have some nice clean alone-time the next day, else you'll be having people think you let a hammerhead shark die inside your breeches. Yeeeowch.
The Lesson: good food and drink, not so much of a hospitality feel to the crew of this boat. Sure, they be busy, but do they have to look like they be morbidly constipooted?
1 Previous Review:
-
9/28/2008 First to Review
Your good Captain was lured to this establishment by a drunken call to his rPhone and went in full well knowing that it had to be some sort of trap. The drunken lubberette what called me said "OhHeyGuessWhatI'mIn TownComeGetDrunkWith Us!!!", a legendary ploy of the British East Indiamen when trying to snare a pirate what might be interested in unwinding after a day of vicious barbary. The real giveaway though was when they claimed the place be a High Gravity Pub located within slashing distance of The Local and MJQ.
Blubber.
Hoppenskotch.
The only thing what happens in that area of Atlantarrr be drunken passages best not recorded in a ship's log. How could there ever be an actual pub located in the heart of Blondie Country?
Again, Bouldersmush.
A trap I knew it to be, yet I tumbled out of me autocarriage and strode through the door of the place, because that's the sort of space pirate I be. Adventurous! Fearless! Easily Swayed by Drunken Phone Calls.
Expecting throbbing trance music and a wall of smoke of dubious origin, I was flummoxed by a wall of solitude and woodtone. Holy Archipelago, Batsman!! The place be *gorgeous* inside... like the inside of one of me ships... the sort of place a dangerous fellow and his best wench could get soundly drunk inside of and still feel warm and homey.
The drunken friskers what called me to the pub in the first spot were at the bar, in a place that be nearly empty... they had the whole run of the place. Understandably, I were a toody bit wary of the emptyosity of that wooden hideaway, but a high gravity beer soon put me to ease. Suddenly, there's not quite so big a push to drive all the way out to the Brick Store (though that celebrated hall shall never fall from her exalted spotte). So yarr... a solid beer menu. The food menu was desperately celebratory to one of the spitters what invited me to the place, as she be a Veggetamarian... "LookAtAllTheStuff-I -CanEat!!" she spat, waving the menu around like a scimitar.
Wish that I'd thought to order some of that food so I can tell you if it were tasty... as that be the only reason for me not giving the place a full star compliment.
Keep that hookah in your pants LeRoy... No Smoking Inside!!!
That's worth a star right there!!
Besides the decor, I liked how friendly the staff were (star), I liked the layout of the place, I liked the head (as it still be new), I *really* liked the outside stacked deck (star) as she felt like something from one of me own ships... seriously, it's compact but perfect and I expect that it'll be all too inaccessible as word of this "secret pub" starts to spread.
And that's the worst thing of all, for this space pirate... as I never imagined that I'd be able to find parking at the place... and now realize that in another month that I'll never be able to roll up at 8pm on a Saturday night and have plenty of parking lots to pick from.
Unless of course ALL the petrol goes away.
I'm rather hoping that happens now that I've found this place.
One thing I never found out... do the books on the shelves be allowed for reading or not?
9059 Selborne Ln
Palmetto, GA 30268
(678) 545-0674
Palmetto, GA 30268
(678) 545-0674
Paisley Salon
Categories:
Hair Salons,
Makeup Artists
(I know the owner of this business.)
The wench named Amber what cuts my coppery pirate locks recently announced that she were opening her own Hall of Tonsorial Arts, and as I've been under her razor for so many years I had little choice but to follow the map she presented me. Little did I know that I would discover a community from an alternate reality nestled in a river valley outside of town... seriously, this be worth investigating.
The place in which she has opened shop be called "Serenbe", a 900+ acre development on the southeast side of Atlanta, an area said to be "comparable to the size of the Napa Valley". The developers of Serenbe (who I've now met several times) desired to take an agrarian approach on the city planning style known as New Urbanism and their chief desire was to create a gentle, natural community that could never fall prey to urban sprawl... and would value the natural environment over all else.
While the affluent be best positioned to "go agrarian" even we future millionaires can afford to make a day trip down for a bit of dining and a new hairstyle (even if mine rarely changes).
But don't just use Paisley as an excuse to visit Serenbe... it's a long haul OTP and you don't want to leave the place looking like you've been assaulted by a curling iron.... Amber is *talented* and worthy of the trip in itself, and her pedigree is from some of the finest salons in Atlanta, like Van Michael's and Vis-a-Vis (both in Buckhead).
Paisley is light and airy, relaxed and informal. You're in the country when you're at Paisley (albeit, the Fancy Country). The shop is just up the sidewalk from the iconic Blue Eyed Daisy Bakeshop, and a short walk from some of the fine restaurants downtown and you can't go without doing some sightseeing. I can tell you that I plan to return for my next shearing with some folding money and a dining reservation... who's with me?
The wench named Amber what cuts my coppery pirate locks recently announced that she were opening her own Hall of Tonsorial Arts, and as I've been under her razor for so many years I had little choice but to follow the map she presented me. Little did I know that I would discover a community from an alternate reality nestled in a river valley outside of town... seriously, this be worth investigating.
The place in which she has opened shop be called "Serenbe", a 900+ acre development on the southeast side of Atlanta, an area said to be "comparable to the size of the Napa Valley". The developers of Serenbe (who I've now met several times) desired to take an agrarian approach on the city planning style known as New Urbanism and their chief desire was to create a gentle, natural community that could never fall prey to urban sprawl... and would value the natural environment over all else.
While the affluent be best positioned to "go agrarian" even we future millionaires can afford to make a day trip down for a bit of dining and a new hairstyle (even if mine rarely changes).
But don't just use Paisley as an excuse to visit Serenbe... it's a long haul OTP and you don't want to leave the place looking like you've been assaulted by a curling iron.... Amber is *talented* and worthy of the trip in itself, and her pedigree is from some of the finest salons in Atlanta, like Van Michael's and Vis-a-Vis (both in Buckhead).
Paisley is light and airy, relaxed and informal. You're in the country when you're at Paisley (albeit, the Fancy Country). The shop is just up the sidewalk from the iconic Blue Eyed Daisy Bakeshop, and a short walk from some of the fine restaurants downtown and you can't go without doing some sightseeing. I can tell you that I plan to return for my next shearing with some folding money and a dining reservation... who's with me?
Anyone what knows the Captain, knows that he shoots straight from the hip... leaning slightly to the right, dressing slightly to the left, and usually shoots his opponent before the feller in the top hat shouts "Now!", mostly because he be a coward and don't likes being riddled with hot lead.
And so, now, too, this report shall be, lost, in commas... let me begin again on the next line...
The Grange.
Ah, we cannot move on with this first blush review (and there is indeed a review in here) without first addressing the name of the pub. Grange. Guuuuuhhhh-raaayyynge. It kind of rolls around the mouth like a piece of gravel, you know? Grange... crunch, crunch, crunch....
Now, perhaps this be a beloved family name by the blessed clan what have elected to bring life back into the husk of our dear departed Angel (the pub's former incarnation) and perhaps I be pushing hot coals up their noses by wrinkling my own up at the name they've chosen (God help me if this be the name of someone dear to their hearts... I'll be drinking Black and Spits from here to eternity if that be the case).
Still, I think it be fair to bemoan the loss of the lovely name "The Angel" for this rangey, gravelly sounding word that bespeaks gravel and ranginess... like our ship's cook, Stinky Pete McMange.... hey, that's what I could call the place... "The Mange"... it's got a sort of smelly pirate feel to it, no?
But, what I've just done... complain about the name and all... is what these new owners will be facing for the next three months. We'll see how long they can maintain a polite smile before they (understandably) drift into a rage, screaming "It's OUR bloody bar now and we'll do what we darned well please!!!"
For instance, this afternoon when the bar were opened "for real" (and don't think that my feelings weren't hurt at not being invited to one of those many soft opening nights) I watched several folk walk up to the lass what be part of the family enterprise and give her several suggestions about the way things used to be. I could tell that it was probably annoying to her, but she took those suggestions pleasantly and continued about her work. Time will tell if the old regulars will adapt to the new owner's visions, and the new owners to the needs of the old regulars.... a regular arranged marriage, just like they used to have down around the cape toward Hindoostan.. yarr.
Shakedown cruise.
If you were at the Mange tonight, you'll have seen her packed to the gills. PACKED like you wouldn't believe, matey! You can't imagine the pent-up desire people have had for this pub to make its return. But, "packed" has its own problems, as one of me mates discovered right after he informed me that "Sixty feet of bar and two bartenders don't seem enough... they needs two pouring and a third manning the customers at the bar..." and sure enough, he and his finest wench found themselves on the back end of a 30+ minute delay for their meal order, followed by a confusing over-charge on their food, which they loudly disputed. Me? I'd have comped their meal. Anytime a customer finds themselves trapped in a Bermuda Triangle of non-service you must encourage them to come and sail your waters again.
In this case, upon my friends' departure, I received a flurry of text messages expressing their disappointment at the service, as if the Mange were MY pub. I suppose that being a fan and a near-regular of a place does bring with it strange and unexpected responsibilities.
My food and drink? Terrific!
Don't look for the old menu, that belongs to the previous owners. Instead, look forward to some new favorites.
Today I had their meat pie, which is the size of a large cupcake and contains ground beef and other tasty bits. It comes with a side, and I selected macaroni and cheese. The chips are true English chips, meaning that you're going to get a basket of french fries, not the American-style homemade chips/bacon/bleu cheese mixture that you may recall from the previous owners' menu.
Some of the other long-time regulars on the other end of the bar were stepping their way through the menu and were reporting genuine happiness with all of their selections.
All in all I believe that the new owners have a double golden bozo opportunity on their hands and I look forward to an even more gushing review of the Mange in another couple of months!
And so, now, too, this report shall be, lost, in commas... let me begin again on the next line...
The Grange.
Ah, we cannot move on with this first blush review (and there is indeed a review in here) without first addressing the name of the pub. Grange. Guuuuuhhhh-raaayyynge. It kind of rolls around the mouth like a piece of gravel, you know? Grange... crunch, crunch, crunch....
Now, perhaps this be a beloved family name by the blessed clan what have elected to bring life back into the husk of our dear departed Angel (the pub's former incarnation) and perhaps I be pushing hot coals up their noses by wrinkling my own up at the name they've chosen (God help me if this be the name of someone dear to their hearts... I'll be drinking Black and Spits from here to eternity if that be the case).
Still, I think it be fair to bemoan the loss of the lovely name "The Angel" for this rangey, gravelly sounding word that bespeaks gravel and ranginess... like our ship's cook, Stinky Pete McMange.... hey, that's what I could call the place... "The Mange"... it's got a sort of smelly pirate feel to it, no?
But, what I've just done... complain about the name and all... is what these new owners will be facing for the next three months. We'll see how long they can maintain a polite smile before they (understandably) drift into a rage, screaming "It's OUR bloody bar now and we'll do what we darned well please!!!"
For instance, this afternoon when the bar were opened "for real" (and don't think that my feelings weren't hurt at not being invited to one of those many soft opening nights) I watched several folk walk up to the lass what be part of the family enterprise and give her several suggestions about the way things used to be. I could tell that it was probably annoying to her, but she took those suggestions pleasantly and continued about her work. Time will tell if the old regulars will adapt to the new owner's visions, and the new owners to the needs of the old regulars.... a regular arranged marriage, just like they used to have down around the cape toward Hindoostan.. yarr.
Shakedown cruise.
If you were at the Mange tonight, you'll have seen her packed to the gills. PACKED like you wouldn't believe, matey! You can't imagine the pent-up desire people have had for this pub to make its return. But, "packed" has its own problems, as one of me mates discovered right after he informed me that "Sixty feet of bar and two bartenders don't seem enough... they needs two pouring and a third manning the customers at the bar..." and sure enough, he and his finest wench found themselves on the back end of a 30+ minute delay for their meal order, followed by a confusing over-charge on their food, which they loudly disputed. Me? I'd have comped their meal. Anytime a customer finds themselves trapped in a Bermuda Triangle of non-service you must encourage them to come and sail your waters again.
In this case, upon my friends' departure, I received a flurry of text messages expressing their disappointment at the service, as if the Mange were MY pub. I suppose that being a fan and a near-regular of a place does bring with it strange and unexpected responsibilities.
My food and drink? Terrific!
Don't look for the old menu, that belongs to the previous owners. Instead, look forward to some new favorites.
Today I had their meat pie, which is the size of a large cupcake and contains ground beef and other tasty bits. It comes with a side, and I selected macaroni and cheese. The chips are true English chips, meaning that you're going to get a basket of french fries, not the American-style homemade chips/bacon/bleu cheese mixture that you may recall from the previous owners' menu.
Some of the other long-time regulars on the other end of the bar were stepping their way through the menu and were reporting genuine happiness with all of their selections.
All in all I believe that the new owners have a double golden bozo opportunity on their hands and I look forward to an even more gushing review of the Mange in another couple of months!
A septugenarian friend of the family made it a point to press a flier to a Chinese restaurant into my gauntleted hand a week or two ago. I really didn't pay it any special attention to it for a few days, but I eventually realized that it were a menu to a place what be called "Chin Chin Osaki", which sounded bloody similar to the well-reviewed "Chin Chin" chain around the Atlantarrr area....and as it turns out, was indeed the latest version of their chain... even though it doesn't appear to be listed on their website, or on Google maps. This flier, and the food in my belly, are currently the only indications that this restaurant exists.... yet it does....
On Saturday, an hour or more before the imminent arrival my ex-professional videogame-playing cousin (srsly) at the Airport, I nipped down to give this new Chin Chin a try and see if it were as good as the Howell Mill location.
Even though I arrived there after all of the lunchtime offers had ended, my server offered to grandfather me into the time cutoff... which was greatly appreciated.... and yet....
As I always order the standard Chinese food, I decided this night to try something new to my palate... the "Three Cups Taiwanese Chicken", which be a mix of vegetables (cauliflower, fresh bamboo shoots, hot pepper, black mushroom, in a spicy ginger garlic brown sauce.
What arrived at me table was a hearty earthen bowl, which was indeed filled with deliciously fresh versions of all the aforementioned vegetables.... it was VERY delicious and will be something that I order again in the future, without a doubt.
Even though I were seated all alone, reading a book by Mr. Jules Verne, the service was relentlessly efficient, polite and ubiquitous. Operating as a team, all of the servers checked in on me, including a lass what I assumed to be the manager of the restaurant (who was interested in knowing whether her restaurant was as good as the Howell Mill location, which I had mentioned to her).
It was indeed m'am, it was indeed.
I look forward to my next visit, hoping that my experience is repeated!
On Saturday, an hour or more before the imminent arrival my ex-professional videogame-playing cousin (srsly) at the Airport, I nipped down to give this new Chin Chin a try and see if it were as good as the Howell Mill location.
Even though I arrived there after all of the lunchtime offers had ended, my server offered to grandfather me into the time cutoff... which was greatly appreciated.... and yet....
As I always order the standard Chinese food, I decided this night to try something new to my palate... the "Three Cups Taiwanese Chicken", which be a mix of vegetables (cauliflower, fresh bamboo shoots, hot pepper, black mushroom, in a spicy ginger garlic brown sauce.
What arrived at me table was a hearty earthen bowl, which was indeed filled with deliciously fresh versions of all the aforementioned vegetables.... it was VERY delicious and will be something that I order again in the future, without a doubt.
Even though I were seated all alone, reading a book by Mr. Jules Verne, the service was relentlessly efficient, polite and ubiquitous. Operating as a team, all of the servers checked in on me, including a lass what I assumed to be the manager of the restaurant (who was interested in knowing whether her restaurant was as good as the Howell Mill location, which I had mentioned to her).
It was indeed m'am, it was indeed.
I look forward to my next visit, hoping that my experience is repeated!
438 Moreland Ave NE
Atlanta, GA 30307
(404) 688-1828
Atlanta, GA 30307
(404) 688-1828
Vortex Bar & Grill
Categories:
American (Traditional),
Bars
Neighborhood: Little Five Points
Greatly aroused by my opportunity to assume the position as the 69th reviewer of this pillar of the Little Five Points dining community, I made haste to the Vortex to bury my face in a delicious seared tuna wrap. The entryway to the Vortex be unmistakable, as some great wag has erected an enormous Jolly Roger at the spot. Slipping into the entryway, squeezing around the bend, me tongue began to water at the scent of beer and bar food.
A fetching lass with a clipboard guarded her entryway with an arched eyebrow and a shapely round bum. I could tell she be both Amused and Annoyed when I asked her to mark me down as Captain Drew, but I didn't care!!! I knew soon enough that I'd be feasting upon her tuna wrap, just as sure as she'd be taking me large roll of doubloons.
Alright, maybe it's not a LARGE roll, but it's serviceable.
And so is the Vortex.
The burgers, meaty and non, are what give 'em their fame, but the other foods they slip under your chin are generally full and round and fully packed - you'll not leave the warm den of the Vortex without sating your lustenance for sustenance.
When it's really packed in tight, your server might forget things, so don't be afraid to tell her what you need and how you like it. She be there to satisfy you full complete and I must tell you that THIS space pirate ambled out satisfied in ways you cannot imagine.
I personally don't smoke after such animalistic congress, but a fair number of folk do.... so be warned... and while I may not have the opportunity to be the 69th reviewer of the Vortex ever again, I will be sure to visit her occasionally... just to remember the good times we had here.
I might even wear me breeches next time.
A fetching lass with a clipboard guarded her entryway with an arched eyebrow and a shapely round bum. I could tell she be both Amused and Annoyed when I asked her to mark me down as Captain Drew, but I didn't care!!! I knew soon enough that I'd be feasting upon her tuna wrap, just as sure as she'd be taking me large roll of doubloons.
Alright, maybe it's not a LARGE roll, but it's serviceable.
And so is the Vortex.
The burgers, meaty and non, are what give 'em their fame, but the other foods they slip under your chin are generally full and round and fully packed - you'll not leave the warm den of the Vortex without sating your lustenance for sustenance.
When it's really packed in tight, your server might forget things, so don't be afraid to tell her what you need and how you like it. She be there to satisfy you full complete and I must tell you that THIS space pirate ambled out satisfied in ways you cannot imagine.
I personally don't smoke after such animalistic congress, but a fair number of folk do.... so be warned... and while I may not have the opportunity to be the 69th reviewer of the Vortex ever again, I will be sure to visit her occasionally... just to remember the good times we had here.
I might even wear me breeches next time.
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"Space Pirate"
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Compliments
Location
Atlanta, GA
Yelping SinceJune 2007
Find Me InThe Angel, iTunes
My HometownAtlantarrrr
My Blog Or Website When I'm Not Yelping...I write strange words into a shiny box of blinky lights
Why You Should Read My ReviewsBecause you want to sit in my lap lass.
My Second Favorite Website The Last Great Book I ReadThe Baroque Cycle
My First ConcertRoger Waters
My Favorite MovieThe Goonies (how can anybody have a favorite movie?)
My Last Meal On EarthPatty Melt at the Waffle House (I leave Earth twice a month)
Current CrushThe hot mom from the Gilmore Girls
Did you get that? Could you diagram it? Did it have a gerund?
Well this house of barbeque doesn't feature gerund on its menu, but it *does* feature a tremendous amount of enthusiasm (my waitress/bartender Jill provided gracious good company). Toss in a gaggle of lubbers what be hungry for new businesses to take root in their riverside community and you'll have a safe bet that five years from now Hottie Hawg's will be one of the most popular hangouts in the area.
Mind you that what follows is an early appraisal (not a review) of my food since vivacious Jill did confess that they still be in a soft-opening mode.
The plate of victuals they placed in front of me held a bowl of stew, a hearty dollop of potato salad and a meat what they called "Texas brisket".
The potato salad was solid - it could've held its own against any competition from a church potluck supper.
The stew was flavorful, though it did tend toward the soupy side, unlike the thick, thick style of Brunswick stew to which the Captain has become accustomed. This is not to say that it wasn't tasty, it was!
The brisket? A bit too dry for my tastes... rather like a ship's deck without sea spray; the one needs the other. As it was, I had to use several dollops one of Hottie Hawg's sauces to bring enough moisture back to the meat to keep my tongue interested. However, those sauces do be tasty and you'll certainly want to experiment with them.
Next time I go I'll order the pulled pork! (this means that I shall return at some point... you should too!!)