Lisa’s Lunchbox

The guest blogging continues! Thanks to Andria for demystifying a little slice of East Memphis.

Lisa’s Lunchbox
5885 Ridgeway Center Parkway

In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that I do, sort of, work for Lisa’s Lunchbox. I discovered the restaurant a year ago, just after starting a new job in East Memphis. My biggest concern about my office location was that I wouldn’t be able to walk anywhere for lunch. During my first week, I pulled up a Google map of my work address and searched for “restaurants,” just to see what was closest. I was shocked and thrilled to see a listing that was just across the (shortest crosswalk-light ever) road, so I walked over.

What I found inside a non-descript, un-signaged office building was a little lunchtime oasis. With a staff of three – Lisa Clay, Lauren Gray and Laura Leike – the converted office space held an open kitchen, seating for about 30, and most importantly for me, a non-stop stream of friendly chatter. Still feeling awkward and unfamiliar in my new job, I entered a place where I instantly felt welcome. They took my name the first time I ordered, and when I came back a couple days later, they remembered it. Oh, and the food? It was really, really good. I was hooked.

So hooked, in fact, that when I couldn’t find their menu online to show a friend, I offered to create and keep up their website on a contract basis (the terms of our agreement are complex, but I can tell you that they involve at least one chocolate-peanut butter chess bar a month). But I swear to you that this review is not just another online marketing effort. Hey, did I mention the delicious chess bars? And that Laura is now managing their second location, conveniently located at 775 Ridge Lake Blvd?

So anyway, where were we? Ah yes, summer break. Miss M was home at the Compound while I was at work, so one day, Kristy generously and ingeniously offered to bring her over to my office so we could have a mother-daughter lunch. Although Lisa’s is frequented almost exclusively by the corporate crowd, I thought almost-6-year-old Miss M could handle herself well enough to get us through the meal without any askance glances.

I deliberately picked a post-rush lunchtime of 12:45, and most of the executives were heading back to their lairs as we came in. Lauren immediately asked Miss M’s name and said they’d be happy to make anything she wanted. This may sound like an extra accommodation for the company webslinger, but they offer the same service to every customer. If they have the parts to put it together, they’ll make it. Miss M’s tastes are pretty simple, though, so she went for a basic grilled cheese and I got my usual Baby Blues salad, which is a huge spinach salad loaded with grilled chicken, strawberries, oranges, bleu cheese, and seasoned pecans that I would happily eat all by themselves. I let Miss M pick the table, so of course we ended up at the one with the Spongebob Squarepants lunchbox.

After drinking most of the giant bottle of orange juice she picked from the drink cooler, Miss M wasn’t all that hungry when her panini-pressed grilled cheese came out. While she was checking out the room, however, she noticed the big stack of home-made sweets on the counter and started asking for cake. While I’d hoped we’d have some time to discuss the urgent issues of the day – the mayor’s resignation, health care reform, the nihilist vs. existentialist struggle displayed in the story arc of High School Musicals 1-3 – once she saw the dessert pile, there was really nothing to talk about except whether she could have some cake and how much real food she would have to eat in order to do so.

Because it was a special occasion, and because I didn’t want my eldest child to make a huge off-putting scene around people who regularly touch my food, I acquiesced after she ate one half of her grilled cheese. Okay, really, Lisa told her to help herself, but I’d already decided it was okay! As I expected, Miss M was able to eat about two bites of the giant treat (it was actually a big gooey brownie, not cake) before saying she was full, so we packed up the other half of her sandwich and 7/8ths of her dessert and headed on our way. (As evidence of how big the salads are, I offer Exhibit A: brownie leftovers.)

All in all, we had a delicious and mostly-pleasant lunch, and the ladies at Lisa’s did everything to make us happy, but I do feel the need to make a monkey caveat. When you walk into Lisa’s Lunchbox, you won’t see any high chairs or booster seats. You won’t see a changing table in the bathroom; in fact, there is no bathroom, not unless you go out into the office building itself. So although I won’t say it’s a kid-unfriendly place (the jars of free candy on the counter exist specifically to lure orthodontia patients), it certainly isn’t designed for children, especially small ones. I’ve been there with my baby and with my big kid, and felt welcome both times, but I also was a little wary of the suited masses and how they might feel if a sticky face passed too closely by their tables. If this doesn’t worry you, or you happen to be one of those masses yourself, dig out the Google map and come on over.

Perkins

This may be my all-time favorite review from Andria. It's replete with nostalgia, the best made up word ever, and useful information!

Perkins
3455 Poplar Avenue

Since I've been working nearly every Saturday for the past year, The Admiral has come up with numerous inventive ways of entertaining Miss M on the weekends. Whether this means conquering new playgrounds or shopping for boat accessories, it almost always involves a restaurant lunch. Something about being on an adventure with her dad usually makes Miss M behave for these outings, and they both return home excited about their culinary adventures.

In an effort to include me in one of their bonding moments, my ever dynamic duo invited me out to Perkins on a recent Saturday morning. They'd driven way out to the Perkins in Germantown (what I consider the Baptist Hospital Waiting Room Annex) on their past forays, but this time we decided to stick a little closer to home and only went as far east as Poplar and Highland.

Now, to me, Perkins is the last vestige of the wayward teen. Or at least the bored one. I spent many, many high school nights huddled over a large hot chocolate ($2 minimum per guest, dude!) while my friends and I decompressed after a rowdy night of ACT prep studying or choral performance. At the time, all that mattered about the restaurant was that it was open 24 hours and they were really tolerant of roaming bands of geeks. We weren't paying too much attention to the service or food quality. We just drank our two dollars' worth, sat around as long as they let us, and tried not to provoke the Vo-Tech kids in the smoking section.

So walking into a Memphis Perkins on a Saturday morning at the close of Death Week was a whole new experience. The Admiral had warned me that it would be crowded, and even though it did seem to be packed, we were seated right away. Unfortunately, we were seated right next to the glassed-in smoking section* that appeared to be ventilated directly onto our table. We set to work reviewing the menus while a waitress quickly appeared to take our drink orders. When she saw Mr. Baby tucked happily into his sling, she busted out a picture of her little boy. I was feeling sort of cranky and thought this was a devious ploy for bigger tips, but when I overheard her later not able to give tourists directions to the Pink Palace because she had moved here from Nashville and never went anywhere but work and home, I had a vivid glimpse into the life of a Perkins waitress that I immediately wished I could forget. Once I got over my crushed cynicism, I ordered lemonades for Miss M and me, and was immediately informed by Miss M that she wanted a Sprite. Order corrected, we focused on our food options.

Miss M was suffering through the time-honored dilemma that faces all diners between 11am and noon: breakfast or lunch? She was leaning toward the chicken quesadillas on the kid's menu, which for $4.29 came with a drink and cookie (all other entrees came with a side order as well), but then she was inevitably drawn toward the rainbow-sprinkled and bear-shaped pancake options (the breakfast choices were $3.29 and included drink and dessert). I was coping with the same quandary when the waitress returned with our drinks, and while Miss M drank my lemonade, I rashly decided on the country-fried steak breakfast platter, mostly because it was a buck less than the regular country-fried steak plate yet came with eggs and potatoes. The Admiral went the lunch route with some large pepper-covered sandwich, and Miss M settled on breakfast/dessert with the chocolate chip pancakes.

Mr. Baby was still resting comfortably against me and Miss M was fairly well occupied by the children's menu activities, even though she disapproved of one of her assigned crayon colors. It wasn’t until the food arrived that he lost all semblance of good behavior. Oh wait, did I say he? I meant she. Just the sight of chocolate made Miss M start jittering. She did that patented pre-schooler trick of repeatedly going limp and sliding down the booth seat on the floor. She begged to take off her shoes. She kept touching me (I know this one doesn’t sound major, but we’ve had to implement and enforce a very strict Hands Off Mommy rule when eating). So while I was trying to choke down the least appetizing steak in the country of Fried, the aroma and already questionable taste overpowered by the Smo-Quarium pollution, I was also using one hand to yank her up, off or away as the situation required.

We were prepared to walk out without dessert, considering we didn’t want to reward her behavior, plus her actual meal had been nothing more than chocolate chips and syrup, but our attentive waitress zipped over with a freshly baked cookie. We paid up as quickly as possible and then Miss M and I (with Mr. Baby still quietly attached to me) visited the ladies room. I can’t really remember anything distinctive about it, mostly since I was suppressing a raging urge to lock Miss M in a stall, but I’m pretty sure it was tolerably clean and had a changing table. There may have actually been smoke coming out of my nostrils at this point. We burst out of the doors like we were exiting an air-lock and while I was un-slinging Mr. Baby to put him in his carseat, I heard Miss M mutter, in her tiniest voice, “Sorry, Mommy.” Which is about as much remorse as you can ever expect from a 4-year-old, so I tried to take a deep breath and let all that built-up tension go. But all I could smell was smoke.

* This review pre-dates the smoking ban in restaurants that took effect in October, 2007. I bet it still smells in there, though.

Olive Garden

Just when I thought my OGBs (Original Guest Bloggers) had abandoned me, S.A.M. sent me this.

Olive Garden
5679 Poplar Avenue

I never considered my family of origin to be Chain Restaurant People, even though we spent more than our fair share of nights at our local Applebee’s and Pizzeria Uno. That was mostly because at least two of us worked at the mall at any given time and not out of a general fear of independently owned eateries. Whenever my parents or sister have come to visit us in Memphis, we’ve always ventured out and enjoyed the less established establishments. (My dad still mourns the loss of Hattley’s Garage.) So it was somewhat surprising when, after enjoying an evening with Cha Cha and Pops at the pool of Auntie K and The Commander’s hotel, my family voted to eat dinner at Olive Garden.

The Admiral and I were a little confused about the decision, but we deferred to our out of town guests and the dining needs of their one-year-old. They figured a chain would be the kid-friendliest option, and I remember the anxiety of taking a toddler out to eat, so we agreed. So we drove out into the rainy east Memphis night toward an Olive Garden so new it didn’t show up on either The Admiral’s or The Commander’s GPS units. We sighed as we passed numerous other, superior restaurants—Ciao Bella, Blue Plate Cafe, even Corky’s—and pulled into a packed parking lot.

And then it all began. From the moment we stepped inside, our evening was pocked with problems ranging from the annoying to the incomprehensible, the first of which was looking around at a restaurant full of empty tables and being told we’d have a 25-minute wait. Okay, we let it slide, maybe they were understaffed. Pops went off in search of some friendly diners who might loan out a breadstick for our starving waifs, but within about five minutes we were informed that a table had become available. We rejoiced. Prematurely, it turns out.

It’s hard for me to even remember all of the things that went wrong after that, but in general summary, every single part of our dining (okay, eating) experience was marred in some way. Our server came to the table but didn’t get our drink order. Then she got our drink order and vanished. Our strangely delayed breadsticks and salad came before our drinks did, and we were done with the first basket and bowl before we had beverages. Then when they did arrive, she forgot half of them and got my dad’s wine wrong. His “house red” came out looking a lot like a rose, and tasting even sweeter (in a bad way).

Of course, being the Midwesterners that we are, we didn’t say a thing about it. Pops didn’t send his wine back, and Auntie K didn’t complain when the server came back three times without hers. Although she did gently point out that her daughter’s milk was still missing from the table. I think it took a full six visits before our server had all of our drinks in front of us. Well, except The Admiral’s water. That never came.

Somehow, the children—Mr. Baby, Miss M and 15-month-old Cousin A— were surviving this total customer service meltdown. Even though it was way past his bedtime, Mr. Baby was hanging tight in The Admiral’s lap. Miss M was somewhat diverted by the kids’ menu activities, and Cousin A was making slow enough progress through the breadsticks and salad toppings that she didn’t seem to notice the general air of exasperation. By the time (most of) our food arrived, they were eager but not yet hysterical.

We dove at our entrees, so excited to see our food that we failed to notice that Cha Cha was missing her ravioli. The server said it would be right out, and being the gracious grandmother that she is, Cha Cha told us all to go ahead and eat. We figured her food was right behind ours, so we all dug in. By this time, I was nursing Mr. Baby and eating my chicken parmesan with one hand (a situation I never envisioned in my future when my high school boyfriend and I used to go to on our “fancy” dates; you know, the ones that involved thirty hard-earned dollars from his job at Applebees!). Miss M ate about half a bite of her macaroni and cheese (“I don’t want the round kind!”—it was shell-shaped), having filled up on breadsticks and black olives over the previous 90 minutes. Pops finally noticed Cha Cha languishing and offered her some of the molten cheese appetizer he’d ordered for dinner. As I was finishing up my second chicken filet, the non-punctual pasta finally arrived.

I’d say Cha Cha’s meal just barely beat the check, but of course, it took at least two more trips to our table before our server gave us the chance to pay her. As far as I know, the processing of Pops’ credit card went okay, but I’m going to suggest he look over his next statement just in case. The server offered to bring us to-go boxes for Cha Cha’s leftover ravioli and Miss M’s untouched macaroni. And then she vanished into the ether again. We were creeping up on two full hours of Olive Gardening when she came back with one box. Weaker diners would have just given up right there, but The Admiral was on the verge of leaving town for the week and we couldn’t spare a lost meal. So we waited some more. And—need I say it?—some more. We finally escaped into the night just shy of 9:30pm, our stomachs full and stoicism intact.

The American Cafe

An installment from the increasingly pregnant and hungry Andria.

The American Cafe
2055 West St # 20
Germantown, TN

We get demented when we’re hungry. It happens to every single person in our family. Miss M (age 4) wakes up in the morning like a rabid timberwolf, screeching and thrashing and making weird hissing noises until she’s given her bowl of dry oatmeal and 1.5 teaspoons (okay, tablespoons) of brown sugar. She comes by this foodborne madness honestly, as both The Admiral and I turn into deeply irrational creatures when our blood sugar gets low.

All this is in the way of explaining how we found ourselves at American Cafe in Germantown on a Friday night. It’s hard for me to remember what all led up to the decision, being so close to a coma at the time, but I’m pretty sure we tossed out our usual suggestions (namely Huey’s, Los Compadres, The Admiral’s beloved Chili’s) along with a smattering of other ideas, none of which could satisfy my finicky pregnant palate as well as provide The Admiral with his pined-for tiny loaf of bread and garlic butter. So even though it was well past 6pm on a Friday evening, and therefore only an hour from Miss M’s bath time, we headed down I-40, into the widening darkness, toward a Germantown strip mall.

We arrived and saw a crowd gathered in the entryway, which caused us concern, but it turned out to just be a group of Germantowners who clearly had nowhere else to hang out. We were seated at a very convenient booth at the end of the room, so our increasingly deranged child wouldn’t be in anyone’s face but mine. It took a surprisingly long time to get our drink orders taken, so we were sure to have our food requests ready by the time our waitress returned with beverages and the long-awaited bread, nearly all of which was consumed by Miss M within 45 seconds.

We ordered either the spinach con queso or the artichoke dip (I’m pretty sure the former, but again, I wasn’t thinking all that clearly and I could be remembering the wrong cheesy appetizer. That held us over and kept Miss M distracted until the real food arrived. I’d ordered macaroni and cheese for the child, with a side order of broccoli that I incorrectly assumed was included in the price of the meal (the list of non-fry sides apparently only applies on dishes where fries are included). We were charged $2 for the barely touched veggies, yet never received the Teddy Grahams that definitely were supposed to be included. (Oh, and for the record, that “kids eat free” deal that the now-closed Wolfchase location offered is not applicable in the Saddle Creek restaurant.)

My dinner was the chicken parmesan sandwich, and wow, was it unpleasant. The chicken was just a regular overcooked boneless breast thrown onto a burned yet soggy roll that was clearly not designed to hold meat of that shape or weight. I’m really not sure what The Admiral had, but he ate all of it. Of course, he would eat his own left hand if it were covered in Philly cheese sauce. Especially since the waitress made up for her initial tardiness by refilling his Diet Coke no fewer than 8 times.

How any eating got done at all is a mystery, however, since Miss M had by this point completely rebelled against the entire concept of dining out and was spending her time throwing crayons at us, sticking her hands in the uneaten macaroni and trying desperately to climb out of the booth using only my shoulders for leverage. It was hard to keep ourselves calm, but it was also pretty hard to blame her. We were the ones who dragged her out to dinner right at bedtime, after all. So while I tried to keep her from disturbing anyone not genetically responsible for her, I did accept the brunt of her attitude with resignation and the standard amount of maternal guilt.

After a typically harried bathroom break and much accusatory sighing, The Admiral removed Miss M from the scene as I poked at my last few bites and paid the bill. They were having some sort of discipline-related conference as I got to the parking lot, and we completed our evening with a very quiet drive back to Midtown. Sorry to anyone we may have frightened or bothered. We plead temporary insanity.

Kooky Canuck

The Kooky Canuck was once called Big Foot Lodge. Here's Andria's review...

Big Foot Lodge
97 S. 2nd St.
Downtown Memphis

Lately, Miss M (age 4) has become obsessed with downtown Memphis. I'm not sure what draws her to the area - the architecture, the musical heritage, the chance to see dogs and horses in the same carriage - but just the mention of downtown gets her little urban heart aflutter. So when my parents flew in for my birthday weekend, half-starved because they got to the airport three hours early but refused to pay airport prices for food, I asked Miss M where we should take them to eat, and her immediate response was "Downtown!"

It was fairly early on a Thursday evening, but I wanted to avoid anywhere too grown-up. I was already trying to suppress my early pregnancy crabbiness (because I wasn't allowed to break the news to my folks until the Admiral got home from work later that night), so I picked what seemed like the easiest option: Big Foot Lodge. I figured anyplace that offers 4-lb. burgers and 18-scoop ice cream platters couldn't take itself all too seriously.

At first glance, I thought I'd miscalculated. The dim lighting, the tables full of reveling accountants, an occasional glimpse of high heel - maybe we were in a grown-up restaurant after all. But the tables were cloth-less, they had a kid's menu and Miss M's drink came in a lidded cup without us even asking, so clearly they knew the drill. Although they did seat us next to a prep area, so we had to do some maneuvering to keep Miss M out of the stacks of napkins and alluring collection of fresh ketchup bottles.

My parents quickly settled on the catfish sandwich, since when they visit Memphis they're incapable of consuming a meal that doesn't include either barbecue or fried bottom-feeder. I ordered a kid's meal for Miss M that contained a hot dog, sweet potato fries, and a "cereal" (read: knock-off Rice Krispies) treat. I wasn't all that interested in eating, but I got the four-cheese burger for cover.

I'm not sure if the wait for our food was really long or if it just seemed that way because Miss M kept dragging my fatigued butt (and her newly potty-trained one) to the bathroom. By the third trip, Cha Cha had mercy and took over the duty. They quickly discovered the lobster tank, which Miss M found enthralling until a well-meaning employee picked one out and offered to let her touch it (is that cool with the health department, letting toddlers handle the food?). After running away from Lobster Man, she was hardly in the mood to eat, so when our food finally did arrive (yeah, it really did take a long time), she took one glance at her hot dog, a sniff of her fries and crumbled off some of her cereal treat before announcing she was done and, oh yeah, had to use the bathroom. I tried to distract her with a piece of hot dog bun slathered in mayonnaise (that in honor of my birthday, she re-gifted all over my bedroom floor at 12:15am), which lasted about 14 seconds.

Fortunately, that's the same length of time it takes Cha Cha to eat a full meal. They ventured back to the lobster tank while I looked back over the menu and figured out that we'd spent $5.95 on her uneaten meal. For shame, Big Foot Lodge! I could have saved some money and just ordered off the appetizer menu. The fried pickles or corn-brat probably would have been more successful.

Pops and I finished up our meals and the grandparents prepared the exit strategy. I'm pretty sure this involved some sort of bribery relating to the contents of Cha Cha's purse. All I know is that Miss M left quietly and we had a new Madeline book when we got home. In all, a pretty underwhelming experience. Mediocre food, slow service, and an insanely priced kid's meal make it pretty unlikely that Big Foot will be on our short list anytime soon.

The Arcade

Another awesome installment from Andria.

The Arcade
540 South Main St.

If I ever take Miss M (age 3) out to eat without The Admiral, it's with at least one or six other parents and their bevy of children so that I can hide amid the chaos and take no direct responsibility for the behavior of my own, hard to identify offspring. Solo-parent weekend restaurant trips are usually the domain of The Admiral, but since he was off cavorting with his fellow audio geeks in San Francisco, and since Miss M decided to start her Saturday at 6:43 am, I had plenty of time to get us both cleaned up and off on a downtown adventure before opening the store at noon. After a brief but fulfilling perusal of the Memphis Farmer's Market, I started nudging Miss M to the east. Since, sadly, Ernestine and Hazel's isn't open at 10:30 am, we wandered down the block to The Arcade.

Miss M's stride was slow until the word "pancakes" left my lips, and then she was all business. We seated ourselves at a cozy two-top booth next to the main counter. And then I got ready to wait. I've always been happy with the food at The Arcade, but the wait times, even during quiet periods, are pretty ridiculous for what is essentially diner fare. Miss M kept busy playing with the butter containers and surprising me by correctly identifying the numbers on the ketchup bottle (always nice to see the pre-school tuition pay off). She also surprised me by sitting in one spot and acting, more or less, like a functioning member of society. I started to figure out why her dad has done this so often. She actually seems to behave better when there's only one parent around. Maybe it's because she doesn't have to fight for a conversational slot, or perhaps because she doesn't have to spend so much energy trying to figure out the best! way to divide our discipline efforts, but whatever the reason, I was really enjoying our little adventure together.

Just when I was beginning to think that my 15 minutes of pointed room-scanning was for naught, our server appeared and took our drink orders. I got juice for us both, and Miss M's was brought in a styrofoam container with a lid without us even having to request it. I ordered an a la carte order of pancakes ($3.00) and a biscuit ($0.50) for Miss M, and a Pert sandwich ($3.50) for myself. I was proud of myself for ordering such an inexpensive combination of items. It's very easy to spend $7.50 on eggs at The Arcade.

We sat with our juice for a few minutes, and I was feeling such a pleasant maternal buzz that I broke my strict "restaurant space" rule and let Miss M sit on my lap. At about the time she said, "I need to go potty," I felt a warm spot on my leg. I guess all that Montessori money isn't going into teaching her about the past tense. We made a quick sprint to the cramped little restrooms, where she subsequently refused to sit on the toilet but graciously allowed me to change her royal Pull-Up.

When we got back to our seats, I was surprised to see that the food had already arrived. I was also surprised to see that the rest of our things were gone - our drinks, our silverware, the flowers we'd bought at the Farmer's Market. A passing server said, "Oh, she thought you left." What the what? It's not like she was having a Team Oster meeting in the bathroom. We were away from the table for three, maybe four minutes total. I stood in befuddlement for a moment while they brought back the flowers (two of them broken) and M's hair clip, refilled our juices and brought fresh forks. They apologized for the mistake, although I didn't see any apology on the bill. Miss M didn't seem to notice the upheaval, being that it occurred more than four centimeters from her pancakes and biscuit. She dug into all the carby goodness while I enjoyed my sandwich (sausage, egg and cheese on toasted wheat) and one hijacked pancake. She was so focused that I broke my second restaurant rule and let her have syrup. Aside from the bit she got in her hair while diving after an ill-fated pancake scrap, she did an amazingly good job of keeping the forbidden goo where it belonged.

We ate quickly, perhaps out of fear that our plates would be taken out from under us if our forks were up too long, and then went to stand at the counter for a few minutes until someone could settle us up. I guess I should have just walked away and if someone happened to call me on it say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you left."

Gus's (Bartlett)

Another great installment from Andria. Mmmm...chicken!

Ed. Note: As of June 2009, Gus's is no longer offering a kids' eat free day.

Gus's World Famous Fried Chicken
2965 N Germantown Rd
Bartlett, TN 38133

Getting me to the Germantown Gus's Fried Chicken is always a tricky maneuver. I have to be hungry enough to bend my usually rigid position on our budget, yet not so hungry that I can't fathom the idea of a half-hour drive plus 20 minutes waiting for food. I also have to be suffering from a brief bout of amnesia that prevents me from remembering that I've never really, really liked any meal I've had there.

Lucky for the rest of the family, last Friday was one of those days. We loaded up the supplies and headed east and arrived just in time to nab one of the last available tables. Little did we know that Friday and Saturday nights are when Gus's offers All You Can Eat chicken and catfish for $9.95. The restaurant was crowded and smoky (the good kind), giving it quite a bit more ambiance than it usually has. It is, after all, a strip mall restaurant, and its wannabe-country decor is a pale imitation of the grittier (although not that much older) Gus's downtown.

After a quick perusal of the succinct menu, we placed an order for the chicken/catfish meal (The Admiral), a 3-piece dark meat meal with fries and beans (me) and the child's hot dog with macaroni and cheese (M, age 3). One of the biggest things that draws us to Gus's is the free kid's meal. Any kid under 12 eats free when accompanied by a paying adult. All day, any day. And it's a solid meal, too - choice of entree (hot dog, corn dog, maybe a burger or really good chicken tenders), one side (fries, mac and cheese, beans, fried okra, etc.), a drink and an ice cream cup that all of the waitresses know not to bring or even mention until after the main dish has been eaten.

After about 15 minutes, the obligatory trip to the bathroom (one seater, fairly clean, no changing table) and some distracted viewing of the CNN feed being shown on all three flat screen TVs, our food arrived. For the first time, I noticed that "mild" was an option for the chicken, and boy am I glad I did. The spicy chicken has always been a bit too overpowering for my delicate Midwestern palate. My mild drumstick and two thighs (I think?), however, were just right. The Admiral dug into the first serving of his endless dinner, and M looked at her plate for about 12 seconds before deciding she didn't want anything on it. I think the fact that the hot dog was split in two on one side really threw her off. She didn't even want to
lick the mustard off of it.

We ate in relative peace for a few blissful moments, but then M's hunger and frustration caught up with her. She began bouncing from one seat to the next and eventually settled down next to me. Something about seeing someone contentedly eating a meal must have flipped a switch in her head and she suddenly hauled off and smacked me. Time Out #1. I took her outside and tried to talk her down, and when she seemed to have calmed a bit, we went back inside. Two high-pitched, full-volume screams later and it was Time Out #2, which is generally our signal to pack up and leave regardless of meal status but The Admiral did squeeze in one more plate full of fish and chicken before we hightailed it out of there (sans M's free ice cream).

As we left, the hostess said, "Bye bye, Miss M!" like she always does, once again affirming the kid-friendly feel of the suburban Gus's. Even when your monkeys are acting their worst, the staff still acts like they're part of the family.

Pete & Sam's

Sadly, I bring you the final installment of the Monkey Convergence at Pete & Sam’s from Andria. Thanks for humoring us! Unless we hear some complaints, we may do it again soon. But invite more people, like the Chockleys.

As the last person to weigh in on the Monkey Convergence (assuming Warren and Admiral Jeff are still in their stress-induced comas), I feel it's my duty to make sure the record is accurate and complete. It's my pleasure to bring you ...

The DWM True Monkeywood Story!

[cue ominous voiceover guy]
Thursday, June 15, 3:38 pm, downtown Memphis: in a tobacco-fueled moment of delirium, RJA suggests that Stacey and several guest bloggers, all go to the same restaurant at the same time. Those still capable of basic math smile patronizingly and say, "sure, sure ... sometime."

Sunday, July 9, 2:47 pm, JP's birthday party, Kristy & RJA's front porch: suffering the effects of moonbounce-induced heat exhaustion, a small gaggle of DWM bloggers discusses possible locations for this purely theoretical monkey convergence. The exceedingly brilliant idea of visiting The Blue Monkey is shot down by one (roller)blogger who seems to think bars are inappropriate venues for large gatherings of children. The field is narrowed to two finalists: Jasmine and Pete & Sam's.

Wednesday, July 12, 1:19 pm-Friday, July 14, 4:59 pm, various Memphis workplaces: no fewer than 27 emails are sent in an effort to finalize the convergence. Jasmine is the winner. And then not. A last-minute audible is called and reservations are made at Pete & Sam’s. For 12. But what the DWM bloggers didn't know is that ... one of them had a secret.

[interior: dimly lit room, a female form in silhouette speaks in a privacy-protected distorted voice]
Anonymous Blogger: "Look, I ... I just don't really like Pete & Sam's. I never have. Maybe it's the peppers in the gravy, I don't know. But after all the debating back and forth, I was just too tired to object. And Je ... I mean, my husband was all excited about the tiny pizzas, so I figured maybe it would be better this time."

Friday, July 12, 6:34 pm, Pete & Sam's parking lot: [interior: anonymous Toyota] "Holy crap, that's Stacey's car ... and that's Kristy's car. Everyone's actually here already!? Man, the multi-breeders are going to give us crap for being late."

Friday: July 12, 6:36 pm, Pete & Sam's secluded back dining room: crap ensues.

6:39 pm: in an amazing stunt of accidental convenience, each family is seated at their own table, making the separation of checks 14% less annoying for the waitress. Drinks are ordered.

6:41 pm: Drinks are spilled.

6:42-7:01 pm: Monkey level reaches a steady 4 on the Cornelius Scale (10=damn dirty
apes). Most monkeys are still seated, but the restlessness is palpable. As the youngest walking member of Team Monkey, Jiro breaks the tension by trying to wiggle/fall/negotiate out of his high chair. On the south end of the table, a saintly almost-3-year-old sits quietly on her mother's lap while said mother pretends that this uncharacteristic display of shyness-related calm is actually the result of excellent parenting.

7:02-7:13 pm: The adults grow increasingly unnerved by the monkeys' collective reserve. The children are chattering pleasantly, fewer than 3 objects have become airborne, and there have even been smatterings of grown-up conversation.

7:14 pm: Food arrives, accompanied by a side order of monkey sauce. The table is suddenly aflurry with activity, very little of which seems related to eating. This is when two DWM myths are exposed. 1) Stacey's children really aren't as pinball-esque as we've been led to believe; she just likes writing every single little infraction down in her teeny notebook while she urges Warren to contain them, and 2) RJA's children aren't quite as angelic as assumed; he just drinks over the chaos. And Andria's monkey? Still sitting like a parochial school librarian, eating a bowl of black olives.

7:15 pm: Andria remembers too late that she dislikes the chicken parmesano, which is basically just an over-steamed chicken breast covered in sauce with a slice of mozzarella on top. By the time she recalls that she sort of likes the ravioli and tries that instead, it's cold. Her monkey is consuming a reasonable amount of mini-pizza and secretly plotting her monkey debut.

7:24 pm: In between bathroom trips and sub-table child extractions, the adults have finished their meals. The Monkey Level is approaching 9 when the checks arrive. Even Andria's cherubic child has dismounted her mother's lap and is joining the nerve-fraying fray. Amidst bribes involving lollipops, gumballs and monkey bars, the entire crew is slowly relocated to the lobby and then toward their own cars.

7:33 pm, Peabody Park: All three families rendezvous, as much to let the adults work out their tensed up shoulders by pushing swings as to get the kids unwound before bed.

7:42 pm: Somewhere in the humid Memphis dusk, a voice is heard saying, "That wasn't
so bad. We should do it again." Followed by various mutterings such as, "yeah," "maybe," "more liquor."

[interior: back to dimly lit room, a female form and a hopscotching toddler in silhouette]
Anonymous Blogger: "I'm actually glad we ended up at Pete & Sam's, because I think the real point of the trip was to show that families can still have social lives. We don't have to be terrified of going out in groups. It even makes it a little easier to have more kids around, because they entertain each other and the adults can play zone defense if needed. There's really nothing to be afraid of. Except the damn chicken parmesano."

See more Pete & Sam's Monkey Convergence reviews by RJA, Kristy and Stacey.

The Bar-B-Q Shop

Warning: Do not consume liquids while reading this. It could result in the frying of your keyboard should the liquids escape your mouth during a guffaw. An hilarious installment from Andria

The Bar-B-Q Shop
1782 Madison Ave.
272-1277

Upon arriving at The Bar-B-Q Shop, we heard the words no one wants to hear at a Memphis barbecue restaurant:

“We’re out of ribs.”

Gasp! To be fair, it was the 4th of July, and even with pre-orders and reasonable estimation, they just couldn’t keep up with holiday picnic demand. It wasn’t really a big deal, though, since we were just there for some sandwiches. And I wasn’t even all that interested in eating after stumbling out of the car, my sandaled foot slipping on a squishy substance that unfortunately revealed itself to be a pulverized squirrel. Hey, who’s hungry?

Jeff, Jeff's dad, the Monkey (age 3) and I were seated and quickly beveraged by Robert, who gave us a moment to ponder our remaining options after dropping the no-rib bombshell. A pre-lunch sidewalk chalk adventure necessitated a side trip to the restroom for the Monkey and I. Small, changing table-less but reasonably clean, I found the bathroom adequate but not especially appealing. Apparently, the Monkey disagreed. We’d been back at the table for approximately 30 seconds before she said she had to pee. So back we went, and the trip was actually successful. Woo! Oh, the little joys in life.

Back at the table, the Monkey busied herself with the artificial sweetener container and repeated maneuvers toward my Sierra Mist. When she got tired of that, she asked to go to the bathroom again (and was refused). She was acting tolerably, by our usual standards, but I could tell Jeff was stressing out over his dad’s impression of her behavior (Jeff’s only memory of childhood spanking occurred after he went ballistic at a restaurant and threw a roll at another table, and I think he’s got this deep-seated fear that an ill-behaved child will cause his Bruce Banner of a father to suddenly go all Hulk). So I gave the Monkey a small pot of knock-off Play-Doh that I discovered in my bag, and that settled everyone down.

Compared to other barbecue restaurants like Central BBQ and Corky’s, it seemed to take quite a long time for the food to arrive. I’m guessing this had something to do with the $5.95 plate of steaming-hot chicken tenders we ordered off of the “child’s menu.” I don’t know why I got sucked into that racket, since my own pork sandwich and side of beans cost less than the Monkey’s meal, but oh well. They were really good tenders, as I discovered after wrenching the entire plate away from her once she started diving fist-first into the honey mustard. She ate a majority of her fries and almost one entire tender. Jeff and I finished the rest, even the condiment-drowned pieces. Then she asked to go to the bathroom.

My theory is this: the initial bathroom visit is purely a reconnaissance mission to determine what enticing pleasures lie hidden among the toilets. This trip is too exciting to be productive. The second visit usually bears better results and can be hurried along by the impending meal. The third visit is just for fun, especially now that every midtown restaurant has converted to touchless paper towel dispensers. And the fourth visit is specifically designed to make my head explode. If we weren’t (still …) in the middle of potty training, I’d cut her off after the first trip, but since I still have the foolish idealism of a first-time parent, I’ve convinced myself that denying her a needed toilet break will cause some permanent Freudian trauma. Anyway, back to the restaurant …

I’m not sure if it took a long time for the bill to arrive or if Jeff and his dad were just enjoying a leisurely post-lunch chat (while waiting for the womenfolk to get back from the bathroom, again), but we eventually cleared the check and departed for the car. I stepped carefully into the backseat (hello, Cyril) while at least two members of the party expressed dismay that they hadn’t eaten more chicken. Maybe they should change their name to The Bar-B-Q and Chick-n Tenderz Shop.

Pei Wei

It's a good thing Andria has a million projects going otherwise I'm sure she could start her own food blog and have you all reading her instead of me in no time. I bring you another winning review of Andria's despite my large ego telling me otherwise.

Pei Wei Asian Diner
1680 Union Ave.
722-3780

It seemed like such a brilliant idea. We’d spent the afternoon so busy playing that no one bothered to consider dinner, so at around 6:30 on a Saturday evening, we decided to try a new restaurant and stop by the nearby ice cream shop afterward. Based on Stacey’s previous review, we were prepared to bail on this mission if the crowd was too intense, but we were pleasantly surprised when we pulled into the new plaaaaza (so much classier than a strip mall, no?) and found a parking spot right by the door. Clearly a good omen. (Can you already hear the parenting goddesses high above, laughing their daisy-bedecked heads off?)

First off, they seem to have worked through some of their early-opening issues, including patron management. Upon arriving, we were greeted by a host/server who asked us if we’d been to the restaurant before. When we said no, she explained the ordering process (1. pick food off giant menu, 2. try to commit your order to memory before walking three feet away to the counter, 3. check smaller version of menu in front of register in case you have a frontal lobotomy while walking to counter, or if you have children). The menu seemed reasonable enough, and offered a lot of choices in the under-$7 range including a variety of noodle dishes. The “signature dishes” were more ! traditional entrees that could be ordered with a choice of meat and varied from $6.95 (tofu) to $9.00 (shrimp). The only kid-specific item is the “kid’s wei,” which is chicken prepared in either a teriyaki, honey seared or lo mein style (I thought lo mein was just vegetables?) with either brown or white rice. We stood with one or two other parties milling around the giganto-menu, and then had a couple conversations entirely in body language to determine which of us would order next (us: eyebrow raise, sideways head tilt, them: shoulder shrug, pause, forward head tilt. Isn’t sociology fun?)

We went up to order, having of course forgotten what we wanted and having to find the same items on the mini-menu while the cashier informed us that they were “in hold” right now and wouldn’t be able to charge us or start our food until a table opened up. Fortunately, this didn’t take long, as a floor manager-type guy offered to seat us at the counter table in front of the "exhibition kitchen." I thought this would be fun for The Monkey, who likes to help us cook and is always making elaborate meals out of Play Doh and Legos. So we got to the counter and before I could even get The Monkey onto the bar stool, a giant flame shot up from one of the pans. I thought she would think this was cool, but apparently my f! ear of fire is hereditary because that little monkey scrambled onto me with all four limbs and clung for dear life. The astute floor manager noticed this and immediately offered to find us another table, which I thought was very courteous. I refused at first, but when it became clear that The Monkey was genuinely upset by the constant shooting flames, I agreed to relocate. By this time, Jeff had filled up our drinks and we were all seated by the front door, which sure came in handy (as you’ll soon see).

The first thing I noticed when we sat down was how many other kids were there, which is generally reassuring. The next thing I noticed was that it was really freakin’ LOUD. The floors are concrete, if I recall correctly, and at least two-thirds of the walls are glass, so the smallish room was practically reverberating with noise. It was also rather dark, which combined with the noise resulted in sort of an uncomfortable claustrophobic feeling.

About this time, the full impact of our order total hit me. We’d gotten two entrees, two small appetizers, two drinks and a kid’s meal, and our meal came to $35. “I don’t think you can call yourself a ‘diner’ if two and a half people can’t eat for under $30,” I grumbled to Jeff. “What?” he said, unintentionally ripping off a joke from RJA. [Note: upon reviewing and re-adding our order, I think that we were charged for large appetizers instead of small, which resulted in an extra $5, so our order would have come to $29.66, including tax.] Thankfully I was lifted from my budget brooding when the food arrived.

Our appetizers arrived first: my crab wontons and Jeff’s spring rolls. I’d ordered the wontons thinking The Monkey would be interested in them, but the chile sauce they rested in was too spicy for her. By the time she nibbled through one corner and spat out any traces of crab or sauce, our entrees arrived. I ordered the ginger broccoli chicken, Jeff had the Mongolian beef and we got the teriyaki meal for The Monkey, since we figured it would most closely resemble her dad’s barbecue creations. Everything came with rice, but no other sides. The server asked if The Monkey would need something to help with the chopsticks and came back with one of those cool little gadget! s that locks the chopsticks together into giant wooden tweezers. Apparently he also said something about forks but I didn’t hear him, so The Monkey was left to waste those precious first few minutes of food interest by playing with her cool new utensil toy. She did make a sincere effort to jab some rice, but it wasn’t long before she began a repeated whine-cycle of wanting help removing the sticks from the holder and then wanting help getting them back in. She was also conducting an elaborate experiment to deduce the least appropriate places to stick said chops, including the straw of her drink. (We’d let her get lemonade instead of water as a sign of faith in her anticipated good behavior. And also because of my growing resentment at being the parent w! ho always has to choose a child-friendly beverage, knowing that The Mo nkey will give up on her boring water and start begging for whatever fancy drink the grown-ups are having.)

When she got bored with the chopstick game, she started in on her old favorite, the choking hazard game. The rules of the game are simple: 1. put forbidden object in mouth and look around expectantly until someone notices, 2. grab object out of mouth as soon as adult says, “What is in your mouth? Don’t put that in there!” 3. promise to keep object out of mouth, 4. return to step 1 and repeat until object is forcefully removed from clenched fist, 5. scream and yell, “Daddy hit me!” We got through a full round of this game while Jeff and I both tried to get through our food and simultaneously (and totally unsuccessfully) entice The Monkey to eat her own meal.

We now pause for an actual food review: I was pleasantly surprised by the tastiness of my chicken. I was expecting it to be much less tender and much more generically seasoned, but it was really quite good. Not that I had much time to notice as I was battling (again, unsuccessfully) to keep my chopsticks from ending up on the floor. The Monkey was getting increasingly agitated, and even though the dinner rush was waning, the noisiness was wearing on us all. My dinner was getting colder and colder as I tried to find something edible for The Monkey to put in her mouth. She ate exactly one handful (literally) of rice before attempting to rappel onto my chair using only ! my hair as a safety harness. Used to countering this type of spontaneous mealtime affection, Jeff grabbed her and sat her down on his side of the table. She writhed and wailed (I think; her mouth was moving, anyway) and eventually whapped Jeff in the face, resulting in an immediate removal from the table and outdoor time-out. From my window seat, I could see Jeff explaining that the No Hitting rule still applies in restaurants as The Monkey looked at the sidewalk and seemingly agreed to chill out. We now tried to bribe The Monkey into eating her chicken, this time promising “a cookie with a surprise in it” if she got through a reasonable amount of real food.

And that’s when it really went to heck. She started yelling, “I want a cookie with a prize! I want a cookie with a prize!” while Jeff continued trying to contain her in a seat-like area. She wriggled free and came back to my side of the table, and I tried one more time to get her to have some food and/or calm it down. Jeff and I were both trying hard to get through the meal in a manner that would warrant an ice cream reward, mostly because we both really really wanted some ice cream, but that dream was quickly, um, melting.

Jeff got up for a drink refill and to stuff his pockets with fortune cookies, just in case she redeemed herself. When he got back to the table, Jeff loosened her from my neck and sat her down on his lap. We could practically hear her brain commanding her hands, “Those cookies are ours, girls. We just have to get past The Father. Fire at will!” and sure enough, she threw another jab at her dad. The second outdoor time-out of the night followed, during which time I finished my now tepid and not nearly as tasty chicken. I trudged outside into the stuffy evening air, saddened once again by the demise of our ice cream plan.

We all went home in a bad mood and sagged into the house. Within a few minutes, though, The Monkey was contentedly coloring and seemed completely unaware of how miserable the last hour had been. When we asked her why she’d been so upset at the restaurant, she said, “I was scared.” Wha?

“Scared of what, honey?”

“The cooking.”

Ohhhh. It all suddenly made sense: the distractedness, the clinginess, the short temper. She’d been freaked out the whole time. And I’m sure the constant din hadn’t helped much, either. So even though we enjoyed our food, and the convenience of deli-style ordering, I don’t think we’ll be hurrying back into Pei Wei anytime soon.

But hey, did I mention they have take-out? Of course, so do the other 47 (authentic) Asian restaurants in Midtown.

Ace's Chicago Pizza (Closed)

I tried getting a pizza, but it seems Ace's has closed. Try Jimmy's if you want Chicago style pizza.

Andria is also known as Secret Agent Mom

Ace’s Chicago Pizza
1134 N. Germantown Pkwy
756-7223

“Yeah, turn here … wait a minute … no, this isn’t right. It’s the plaza with Schnuck’s, not Kroger. I think it’s the next one …”

And so began another trip to Ace’s Chicago Pizza, an unassuming family-owned joint tucked into the maze of strip malls that line Germantown Parkway. We usually take I-40 to Appling Road (you know, by THE CHURCH) and cut over on Cordova Club Road which takes us directly to the correct mass of pink brick and avoids G’town Speedway entirely, but on this occasion, we’d been kayaking at Shelby Farms and were coming from an unfamiliar direction, hence our parking lot detour. But we soon got our bearings (“Over there, by the Malco! And the vacuum store!”) and made a beeline for the buffet.

We now interrupt this review for a little back story: Ace’s Chicago Pizza was founded in Paris, Tennessee by, you guessed it, Ace. Ace had lived in Chicago and was impressed by the gourmet quality of Windy City pizzas. He brought the deep-dish, sauce-on-top style back to Paris, and added the necessary personal touches like homemade sausage ground specifically to his personal recipe. How do I know all this? Well, I’d like to credit my crack investigative journalism skills, but the truth is, Ace’s sister (and co-proprietor of the Cordova location) and I both got called to jury duty on the same day, and we had a particularly nosy judge conducting the voir dir e process. The timing was incredibly fortuitous, because not a week before, Jeff and I had been complaining about the lack of high-quality pizza in Memphis. As I was sitting in the courtroom, 5 months pregnant and silently begging the judge to let me go home and/or pee, I took thorough mental note of the restaurant. We made our first visit as soon as we figured out if Germantown Road and Germantown Parkway were the same thing.

For years (well, two), a trip to Ace’s meant we hit the speed dial on my cell phone as soon as we crossed East Parkway and pre-ordered a Chicago-style pizza, knowing that the 40-minute cook time would nearly have passed by the time we got to the restaurant. Jeff and I are huge fans of the Chicago pie, having both spent our formative college years at Giordano’s, Carmen’s, and Lou Malnati’s, so it’s hard to describe the looks of bliss and nostalgia as we took our first bites. Real meat! Doughy-yet-flaky crust! Non-canned sauce! We did a sausage/pepperoni split, but we each aggressively infringed on the other’s territory. The pizza could have easily fed three or maybe even four not-that-hungry people, but we took the whole thing down ourselves. And up until a few months ago, every trip to Ace’s followed pretty much the same formula, although sometimes Jeff would finish up with an Italian beef sandwich of Chicago-style hot dog for dessert.

Enter: The Monkey. Once a walking, squawking, occasionally eating child became involved in our dining endeavors, 45-minute pre-planning was no longer an option. It was at this point that we noticed the small yellow sign in Ace’s window: Lunch Buffet 11am-2pm. With minimal expectations as to the quality of heat-lamped pizza, we stumbled in one afternoon and discovered one of the best deals in Memphis eats. And now we rejoin our review, already in progress …

Considering that we’re on at least our third Ace’s Buffet Punch Card, this must have been our fifth mid-day visit over the last few months, which doesn’t seem like that much until you consider that we live 30 minutes away and both work full-time. I used to be a little disappointed in the spartan gray-on-slightly-lighter-gray décor of Ace’s, but now that I have a toddler in tow (and often under-toe), I appreciate that everything in the place can be wiped clean and that there aren’t elaborate decorations for her to pull down. On this visit, the Sunday afternoon crowd was pretty typical – maybe three other couples or families spaced throughout the restaurant. (I’ve only seen it crowded on weekend evenings, either before or after a movie.) We stepped up to the counter, ordered our drinks and got our buffet card punched three times (kids under 3 are technically free, but because Jeff eats about 3 adults’ worth of pizza, I feel more ethical if we pay the extra $2.99 for the children’s portion). And then we grabbed our Styrofoam cups, paper plates and plastic utensils and got to work.

First, The Monkey’s plate: three warm breadsticks, one slice of cheese pizza (regular crust – there’s no deep-dish on the buffet), a package of crackers, a few rigatoni noodles from the salad bar that disguise the fact that I foraged out every black olive I could find in the pasta.

My first plate: two slices of sausage, two breadsticks … and no meatballs, because they were down to the last one and that’s not bound to be the tastiest.

Jeff’s first plate: um, probably at least three slices of pepperoni, a breadstick, and that sad last meatball.

We sat down at our usual table, one removed from the buffet (and out of arm’s reach from the large display of straws, utensils and sweeteners) and dug in. The Monkey was so busy with her breadsticks that she barely had time to bug me for my orange soda. I finished my pizza in record time and kept eyeing the buffet, waiting for more meatballs to appear. I suppose that the meatballs are intended to be eaten on top of the spaghetti that sits in the bin next to them, but I never find buffet pasta to be very appealing and the meatballs more than stand up on their own. I went up for one more piece of pizza and tried to express a quiet mournfulness over the empty meatball area. This would never happen on a weekday, when Mr. and Mrs. Ace are at the helm and the ZWWIP ZWWIP ZWWIP of aerating dough can be heard throughout the lunch hours. (We went to Ace’s so often after Jeff broke his wrist that Mrs. Ace closely followed the progress of his recuperation from cast-hood through physical therapy and still asks how it’s feeling.) But on weekends, they take some well deserved time off and leave a group of sweet but not quite as speedy teenagers in charge. I grabbed another breadstick, per The Monkey’s command, and went back to the table. As soon as he saw another pepperoni pie hit the line, Jeff got up for another round, and came back with more pizza and three piping hot meatballs. Dang it! My stomach’s valuable meatball space had been infringed upon by the not-entirely-necessary third slice of pizza, but I went back up anyway. I returned with two meatballs and yet another breadstick for my carbivore daughter, who was now tagging along with whichever parent was traveling to the buffet.

I had now reached the critical point that occurs during all trips to Ace’s buffet: do I get one more piece of regular pizza or switch over to the dessert pizza? Because it’s important not to be overfull when eating dessert, but you clearly can’t go back to the normal slices once you’ve had the cinnamon-swirl. I decided to exercise something resembling restraint and went right to dessert. The Monkey was now picking through the pasta and surgically removing the olive slices without touching any other food product. I think Jeff was on his third plate, all of which looked pretty much the same. I finished my dessert just as The Monkey remembered how much she loves the bathroom at Ace’s. She’s a nostalgic girl, and once she’s been in a public bathroom, she feels the need to revisit it on every possible occasion. So we tromped off to the women’s room, which is a large, one-user space. I’ve lamented the lack of a changing table on several past trips, but now that we’re in potty training mode, I was grateful for the folding chair that gave me someplace non-threatening to wait while The Monkey took care of business. (For the diaper crowd, the floor is clean enough to throw a portable mat down.)

One of the things I love best about a buffet is that you’re all pre-paid and ready to go when the toddler tolerance level starts to max out, which happened right about the time The Monkey realized that there weren’t any more plates to take to the garbage. So we made a hasty exit, followed by a leisurely walk through the strip mall (it’s very important to turn right toward the bike store and not left toward the ice cream store, although if you have a kid who knows what dollar stores are, you’re screwed either way) and then headed back toward midtown, silently plotting our next quest to Cordova.

McAlister's

I am happy to present a review from my third guest blogger Andria. It definitely fell into the "me feeling inadequate because of its genius" category, but I decided to post it anyway, because I love my readers.

McAlister’s Deli
3482 Plaza Avenue (Poplar Plaza/Poplar & Highland)
452-6009

It seems a little like cheating to review a restaurant with no wait staff, but since McAlister’s is one of our favorite quick-but-not-fast food joints in Memphis, I figured I should share the experience. We’ve been going to the McAlister’s in Poplar Plaza since our childbirth education days. We’d be starving after the 3-hour, mid-day class (okay, I was starving all the time) and it was a good place to stop before doing any other Saturday errands we needed to do, like getting dog food at Petco or buying another birth guide at Bookstar or misting up over the Old Navy clothes I couldn’t fit into. So once that belly-bulge was out in the world and grew some teeth of her own, McAlister’s seemed like a natural place to take her.

Our most recent trip was inspired by the sudden awareness that McAlister’s does a “kids eat free” deal on Tuesdays from 3-10pm. You don’t even have to ask for it; their registers are technologically barred from charging for kid’s meals during that period. I’m not sure if kids eating off the regular menu get the same deal or not. I would hope so, because the kids’ menu is pretty limited and I can’t see a 12-year-old really filling up on a pita pizza and potato chips.

I got my usual – broccoli-cheese soup in a bread bowl - and tried to steer the monkey toward something semi-healthy by getting the grilled turkey and cheese sandwich. I also ordered one of their big ol’ lemonades, which are at least sort of homemade and taste a lot better than soda-machine lemonade (yeah, I’m looking at you, Minute Maid). McAlister’s is better known for their sweet tea, but I’m not much for the caffeine and one look at that 2-liter cup makes me jittery. Jeff always gets a sandwich, and this time he chose something involving peppers and beef, I think (it’s always gone within five minutes so I don’t pay that much attention). “We” (read: Jeff) also got a nacho basket as an appetizer. The full menu is huge and pretty daunting, but the friendly counter staff is willing to answer any questions.

The drinks and chips were ready instantly, so we grabbed those and chose from one of the many available tables. This was fairly early – around 5ish – on a weekday, so be warned that regular dinner traffic can be busier. And I’d strongly advise against bringing a monkey during the weekday lunch rush. We once sat for over 45 minutes waiting for our food. They hadn’t forgotten it – they just got that backed up. Anyway, the monkey had barely finished testing all of the possible uses of our plastic order number (It’s a hat! It’s a bracelet! It’s a chair for the sugar packet people!) when our food arrived.

And now I’d like to take a moment to speak to every server in every restaurant offering a children’s menu: DON’T BRING THE FREAKIN’ DESSERT AT THE SAME TIME AS THE ENTRÉE! Okay, so calling some toast slapped over a couple turkey cuts an entrée is sort of stretching it, but still. I was hoping the monkey would get through at least half of the artistically sliced sandwich (“Ooh, it’s a pyramid, honey! Look! Eat some!”), but no, the siren song of the Teddy Grahams could not be resisted. In the spirit of appeasement (and hunger), I ripped open the bag of bears and focused on my own meal. Even though broccoli-cheese soup is almost al! ways on the menu, it can vary considerably. Sometimes it’s very broccoli-y, other days it’s nearly overflowing with shredded cheddar. The freshness of the bread is inconsistent, too. On this occasion, however, it was a pretty perfectly mixed soup contained within a fresh, enjoyably doughy bowl. I ate every bit of it. And quickly, since it only took about three minutes for the Teddy Grahams to start escaping and finding shelter under the table.

In all, the monkey ate about eight cookies, two tortilla chips and one very dainty bite of sandwich, plus several sneaky swigs of my lemonade. We weren’t that surprised, though. Unless a restaurant meal involves macaroni or french fries, she’s generally not interested. Knowing this, we normally don’t splurge on the pricier kid’s menu items, like McAlister's extravagant $2.99 pizza (all of the kid’s meals are between $0.99-2.99 and include chips and those cursed Teddy Grahams; drinks are $1 more, which I think is a nice way of catering to the sippy cup crowd). She at least stayed distracted long enough for Jeff and I to eat, and the atmosphere is relaxed enough that her occasional outbursts and dance breaks (they were playing a mean classic R-and-B mix, and my monkey loves her some Barry White) went unnoticed. Separating the seating into small sections divided by curtains helps in that respect as well, although the curtains are a major monkey temptation in their own right. (You just gotta hope that the person in the adjacent table isn’t trying to close a multi-million dollar deal or settle the final details of her grandmother’s estate, but really, who would be doing that at McAlister’s? I mean, there’s a Buffalo Wild Wings just around the corner.)

On our way out, the monkey decided she needed the restroom, so I sent her off with Jeff. I usually pawn this duty off on him, so it’s hard for me to remember the state of the McAlister’s bathrooms other than “teeny tiny.” I seem to recall that, at this location, the changing table is actually in the hallway outside the bathroom, which is nice as far as space constraints but sort of disrespectful of all patrons within nuclear diaper fallout range. Anyway, after making her mandatory review of the toilet situation, the monkey was ready to leave, and she didn’t even notice the ancient gum ball I snuck out of the machine while she was gone. (I figured a stealthy sugar cookie run would be pushing our luck, never mind! trying to get out of there with any of the fiendishly tempting denizens of the dessert case.) So all in all, it was a successful trip, just like it usually is. McAlister’s isn’t anything fancy, but for not much more than the price of a couple fast-food value meals, you get a meal that tastes like it came from a recipe rather than a test tube.