Chains of Love

Legal Sea Foods

Did I love it? Eh, it’s purely a platonic relationship.

Not that I make a habit of frequenting higher end seafood chains, but my recent experiences at McCormick & Schmick's and now at Legal Sea Foods (not so much Bonefish Grill—I’m sad that I didn’t have time to use my $10 ten-year [dating] anniversary gift card before it expired. If you don’t mind giving out personal information, you can get promotional gift cards on your birthday and anniversary for registering on their site. I get off on crap like this) have felt a little desolate and dreary. I’m not sure if it’s the economy or that I dine too late and the room has emptied out by the time I’m hungry (that’s what eating sliders for lunch at 4pm will do to you). At 9:30pm on this particular Saturday, there were only five or so other tables occupied while on my previous visit in 2004 there was a solid 45-minute-wait.

The shrimp dumplings--or rather wontons as they called them--were preferable to P.F. Chang’s version. The shrimp tasted like shrimp and the wakame salad was refreshing for a chain appetizer.

Bizarrely, I liked everything about this special except the fish. The mahi mahi was overcooked and a bit lifeless, but I liked the Spanish-meets-fall flavors of kale, raisins and sweet potatoes. I’m not sure where the cashew crust fits in to all of that. I probably would’ve used pecans because that seemed more logical.

I’ve never been to a restaurant, chain or otherwise, so aggressive in talking up its wine. I don’t need any prompting, as I’m one of those oddballs who always requires an alcoholic beverage with my chain dinners because I’m classy (one of the reasons why I don’t gravitate toward fast food unless it’s the daytime or super late night). But our server must’ve just attended a pep talk on promoting their Chilean wine, also boldly announced in an insert in the drink list. I think the Olive Garden servers are also supposed to highlight wine, but at least in the city they don’t even make an effort.

We appeased him by ordering a glass of Cono Sur Pinot Noir, then he went into a spiel about how you can now take unfinished bottles or wine home due to changes in the law. (I was just going to say that I’ve never seen anyone actually take advantage of this, but the other night two women at Bocca Lupo ordered a second bottle between them. I admired their moxie. They did take a majority of that bottle to go, though.) Eh, I started with a cocktail so one glass was fine.

Speaking of wine, the next time I’m at the Garden State Plaza I’m totally eating at the Napa Valley Grille. There’s something very twisted about attempting to emulate West Coast wine country inside a New Jersey mall. Even better though, would be eating at the Napa Valley Grille in Yountville. French Laundry? Never heard of it.

Legal Sea Foods * 1 Garden State Plaza, Paramus, NJ

White Manna

Did I love it? Sure. Then again, I love White Castle. No burger snoberry here.

Technically, White Manna isn't a chain because it's not affiliated with the Jersey City location with the missing N, White Mana. Close enough for me, though.

Perhaps to my detriment, I’ve never been one of those single-minded bloggers who can focus clearly on passions like pizza or hating cilantro. In this case, I’m talking about burgers, the everyman foodstuff of the moment.

Recently my attention has been drawn to Nick Solares’ New Jersey slider posts on A Hamburger Today not because I’m slider-crazed but because I’m in this part of that state, specifically Linden, at least once a month if not more getting my share of mall culture and classic late 20th century chains. And I’d never paid any mind to these still thriving (well, some of them—the Linden White Diamond closed right after I read about it) relics I drive by on a regular basis.

White Rose System in Roselle was a bust because I became inexplicably car sick on the way there and couldn’t appreciate my full-sized ketchup-heavy kaiser roll slider (slider doesn’t equal mini burger, it is specific to the griddle steaming process) and crinkle cut fries, and these places almost always serve crinkle cuts.

The following Saturday on the tail end of an unusally burger-filled week (Thursday I had a cheeseburger at Waterfront Ale House—they’ve always done right by me but on this occasion by medium-rare came out medium-well. Maybe that’s why I forget my uneaten half in the car overnight and didn’t even feel pain when I tossed it in the trash) we decided to try the no-secret-to-anyone (heck, Guy Fieri’s graced the compact red-and-silver diner with his outsize presence) White Manna in Hackensack, a little further north than my usual stomping grounds.

 

Two seats opened up at the counter after we arrived so we weren’t relegated to the midget seats in the window. I know Americans have grown since the ’40s, but a whole foot? This was the perfect spot for viewing the cooking procedure, which takes a little longer than you might think. Compared to McDonald’s (I was going to say White Castle to be more apples to apples but a person could go gray waiting for a combo there) this is not really fast food. It can take ten minutes for the naked balls of meat to make it from the right side of the crammed griddle to the left, potato roll on top, cheese melted, steamed through and through.

The finished product is a bit more substantial than a White Castle slider, and the meat’s texture is less baby food mushy. If you order yours to stay you add you own pickles, ketchup and/or mustard. The only off part to me were the onions, which are thinly cut rings instead of chopped bits. There’s no way to take a bite without a strand or two of onions pulling out while you try to gnaw free.

Every other fry was cooked  a shade beyond golden, which was just right. There’s nothing worse than pale mealy frozen fries.

White Manna * 358 River St., Hackensack, NJ

P.F. Chang's

Did I love it? Not until I had a few drinks in me and they began playing Morrissey (godspeed).

It’s hard to judge a restaurant like P.F. Chang’s. Compared to the Americanized Chinese food found on every NYC block, it’s better on many levels. While it’s pointless pitting it against Chinese Chinese food, I’d go as far as saying it’s a suburban Shun Lee Palace. Less finesse and history, sure, but you’ll get similar garishness and fanfare at a fraction of the price.

For comparison, P.F. Chang’s has Philip’s better lemon chicken, “Lightly dusted and quick-fried chicken served with broccoli in a tart, sweet citrus sauce” for $12.95 while Shun Lee Palace has $26.95 lemon chicken “Chicken breast coated with egg batter and rolled in water chestnut flour then fried till crispy, served with shredded lemon and a velvety lemon sauce.” Ok, the latter does sound more alluring but I do wonder how different the two really are. And who eats lemon chicken, anyway?

Do not fool yourself into thinking this is Chinese food for those who can’t handle it or are unable to discern the real thing. Initially, I was surprised at the number of multi-generational Chinese families waiting for tables at P.F. Chang’s, but it’s kind of silly to think that Chinese in America would only eat at restaurants with fluorescent lighting and delivery guys on bicycles.

Normally, I’m not one for sweet cocktails but you feel obligated to order one at a fancy chain. The lucky cat martini, despite containing vanilla vodka, pineapple juice and Chambord, wasn’t that sugary. In fact, it was actually kind of bitter even though that makes no sense.

The dumpling heavy dim sum platter wasn’t anything special. They steamed, filled crescents of dough weren’t mushy but the fillings were all kind of dull and flat. Beef seemed indiscernible from pork and I prefer whole shrimp over a ground mousse. I do appreciate a crab wonton, though. The most fun was playing with the numerous sauces (there was an additional set off to the side). I’m a sucker for condiments even though the sauce they mix for you of hot mustard, soy sauce and chile paste seems kind of haphazard. What’s wrong with eating each of those on their own?

The entrees were stronger than the appetizers. Orange peel shrimp was tasty in that candied, crisp fried way that makes sesame chicken and general Tso chicken so appealing. The peel’s bitterness did help balance the sweetness.

Chengdu spiced lamb contained thick, tender hunks of something. I’m not fully convinced that this beefy tasting meat was lamb at all. Even though this dish wasn’t really like any Sichuan lamb I’ve had--it wasn’t particularly cuminy or spicy-- it was kind of good in its own way. The meat had a charred smokiness and the sauce had an unidentifiable savoriness, perhaps from a bean based chile paste.

$2 mini desserts seem to be the thing now. I also noticed them at Carrabba’s. And they do suck you in. I would’ve said no to after dinner sweets but how much harm could a small treat cause? James had the small Great Wall of Chocolate. My incongruous lemon tres leches cake was confusing at it sounded. It was more like lemon pudding layered with graham cracker crumbs and reminded me of the desserts you find in Cooking Light. I frequently use the magazine for mid-week meals but their sweets are disappointing.

I got an eyeful of the plastic display Great Wall of Chocolate cake on its round metal tray on the way out and I’m almost convinced that you could spot it from outer space (urban myth be damned) it was that large. Mini desserts were wise.

One chain hallmark is the music piped outdoors for the pleasure of patrons quoted one-hour-waits while being handed chunky plastic beepers. As I assessed this gargantuan horse statue of indeterminate dynasty, Suedehead was playing. The video with Morrissey gadding about Fairmont, Indiana, James Dean’s hometown, tracing the young actor’s steps, making a pop culture icon personal, an outsider surrounding himself in artifacts of no import. Riding a lawnmower, sitting astride an Indian bike, reading James Whitcomb Riley in a barn, passing time in a diner…um, and playing bongos in a cow field. 

Immersing myself in East Coast suburbs is a pilgrimage of my own. I can’t help it that I get swept up eating American-Chinese food in New Jersey.

Morrissey - Suedehead - Watch more Music Videos at Vodpod.

P.F. Chang’s * 3545 US Hwy. 1, Princeton, NJ

McCormick & Schmick's

 

Did I love it? Not so much. There was an overall feeling of stinginess despite attempts to project sophistication.

Despite springing from the verdant fir-y loins of Portland just like me, I've never eaten at a McCormick & Schmick's before (I thought I had but that was the lovely Washington Square Newport Bay with the panoramic view of a cemetery). If you're northwestern, patronizing such chains just isn't done. However, if you're northwestern and find yourself at a mall in Bridgewater, New Jersey looking at Crate & Barrel beds, there's much less shame.

More upscale, i.e. expensive, than a Red Lobster and stodgier than a Bonefish Grill, stained glass depicting a Revolutionary War cannon, banker’s visor green drapes framing the coveted booths flanking two dark wood walls, an endless Alto sax soundtrack and a tray of shellacked desserts to entice tableside, evoke another era, perhaps the cusp of 1990. The naming of each fish's place of origin is very 2000's, however. The napkins are cloth though the wooden tables are bare, a distressing cost-saving trend we noticed on our last Bonefish visit. I'm paying for class! Another nod to new frugality was the absence of bread and butter unless asked.

I try to avoid filling up on empty carbs but briny, white wine-spiked broth shouldn't go to waste even if it was almost too salty. They also come with a little  container of popcorn butter. Don’t feel bad about summoning bread to accompany the steamed clams. The portion was a little skimpy for sharing and two mollusks didn't open, acting as accidental server kryptonite. No one would touch or remove the bowl thinking we hadn't finished yet. I suppose I prefer the just in case leave over the overzealous grab.

Judging from most of our fellow diners, largely 40+ twosomes and a big group celebrating a birthday, 90% who cleared out by 9pm, soda in glass tumblers is the beverage of choice. I'm a weirdo who drinks wine at chains (fast food restaurants adding alcohol is a growing trend so clearly I'm not that weird). A 5-ounce Pour of a Chilean (Haras Di Pirque) Sauvignon Blanc with the clams and 8 ounces of Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling, which seems to be standard chain Riesling, with my entrée. No, I'm not an oenophile. I don't even have a problem with Charles Shaw.

I've been wanting to buy live lobsters from the Red Hook Lobster Pound but they were already sold out by the weekend and I hate to admit I'm a little squeamish about killing a creature (cleaning live soft shell crabs nearly a decade ago traumatized me slightly) so I was drawn to the summer lobster section offering three choices. I should've just gone with the traditional whole lobster but wasn't up for lots of messy cracking. Instead, I tried the Caribbean grilled lobster tail with tropical rice pilaf. The bits of meat I managed to extract were sweet but had a not wholly pleasant bitter dirt-like spicing perhaps allspice in the jerk-y blend. At least I managed to eat chain seafood and avoid the breaded, fried and heavily sauced, August's self-imposed mandate is light and low in starch, though I can let the occasional slice of bread and scoop of rice slide.

I wouldn't call M&S particularly good value (appetizers could stand to have a dollar shaved off and I would be more comfortable with entrees losing about $4) and it didn't provide the breezy level of fun I crave from a chain restaurant. This is a case, where an independent seafood restaurant may have been the better choice, though I don't know that any exist in the vicinity. We played with the Urbanspoon app in the Apple store and all the shaking provided no deeper insights.

In short: Portland, Oregon-based seafood restaurant founded in 1979 with 85 locations in 26 states.

Pacing: This is an important chain benchmark for me. We are slow eaters and I like to see if a restaurant will go with the flow or stick to a prescribed regimen. At M&S our entrees were brought out while the appetizer was still on table.

Hard sells: No reciting of specials. Loyalty card applications are on table.

Signature dish: None that I’m aware of, but they do emphasize the fresh and seasonal.

Oddball item: Nothing too glaring, perhaps the spicy tuna "pizza" using wasabi mayo and avocado. There is also a section of five dishes called New Jersey Seafood Classics, that includes not super-regional things like fish and chips, crab cakes and fettuccine alfredo.

Cons: Being called ma'am maybe ten times. No female in their 30s should be called ma'am. (I just reached a restaurant scenario on my Spanish language mp3 that involved a husband correcting a waiter calling his wife senorita instead of senora, miss rather than ma’am. “This is my wife and the mother of my children!”) Take note. This is what a ma'am looks like to a 12-year-old playing an orphan half his age. The actress playing Ma'am a.k.a. Katherine Calder-Young Papadapolis was 43 when the show aired.

McCormick & Schmick's * Bridgewater, NJ

Carrabba's

If you're like me, you pass by roadside beacons like Carrabba's, Bertucci's and Macaroni Grill and despite your indifference to Italian-American food (I hear the entire February issue of Gourmet is devoted to the cuisine though I've yet to receive my copy in the mail and am in no hurry to), wonder what they're like because you can't resist the allure of a chain, any chain. I mean, aren't they all kind of Olive Gardens at their core?

I was in the wilds of East Brunswick, testing out the new GPS I bought (as a gift) for Christmas to see if it could find Hong Kong Supermarket (a point of interest according to the GPS) and afterwards, Makkoli, a Japanese buffet (not found by name in the GPS). Before I could reach my all-you-can-eat sashimi goal, I was lured by the starchy promises of Carrabba's.

"It's more upscale than Olive Garden," James promised, apparently an old pro from dinners with his parents in Northern Virginia. That's not saying much, though I get what he meant. No photos on the menu or zingy folded cardboard promotions on the table, and no free salads and breadsticks. Everything's a la carte and a few bucks more than a suburban OG (though not necessarily a Manhattan one). I ended up with a $10 glass of wine at the bar, which seemed steep by chain standards, though it's not like anyone forced me to order the Coppola claret. I switched to the $9 quartino of chianti special with dinner. Oh, but it's classy because they pour the wine into an individual glass carafe for you dole out as you like.

At the ungodly hour of 6pm on a Saturday it was family central. I knew what I was getting into. However, I'm still not sure why parents bring kids little enough to need distractions out to eat at places where sitting relatively still is required (maybe I'm just jealous because we rarely went to sit down restaurants when I was a child. And other than maybe Sizzler, fast casual chains didn't exist yet. We would occasionally go to Heidi's, a local favorite with a Swiss-themed gift shop and dazzling pastry case). The toddler with a DVD player at eye level on the table disturbed me much more than the girl walking her plush pony up the mini blinds near to us. At least physical toys require some degree of imagination.

The food was standard issue and plated in sparse lonely ways. Crab cakes seemed awkwardly shoved to one side with an awful lot of real estate devoted to the sauce.

My lobster ravioli looked like I'd heated up a frozen pack from Trader Joe's and tossed it on a plate, more in a hurry to catch 24 (sure, I'll still watch Jack Bauer torturing people) even though I'm DVRing it. Ok, there were some herb bits scattered on top, which is more garnish than dole out at home.

Carrabba's has totally tapped into the mini dessert trend, offering $2.50 "bacino," which translates to creamy parfaits in glorified shot glasses. I wasn't biting as can be seen in this photo of the Chocolate Dream, a bit of fluffy overkill by way of Kahlua brownie with chocolate mousse and syrup. I could've sworn there was ice cream in there. It definitely needed ice cream.

I hate macaroni, which will prevent me from trying a Macaroni Grill maybe ever (I can only picture noodles dripping with Velveeta over flames). Bertucci's, I might give a chance. Though the chain I've always meant to visit but haven't is P.F. Chang's. Looks like the closest one in the strangely named town of West New York, NJ,. Maybe I'll put the GPS to use this weekend.

One thing Carrabba's has over Olive Garden is that if you mention them on Twitter they'll start following you. Brands connecting through tweets is one thing, but when Damages' Patty Hewes started following me I got kind of scared.

Carrabba's * 335 Rt.18, New Brunswick, NJ

Red Robin

Despite being a Northwest chain, I don’t think I’ve eaten at a Red Robin more than once and nearly two decades ago. I have only a vague youthful memory of restaurant, and the nagging feeling that I perceived it as upscale. I’m not sure if that says more about Oregon or me.

I keep seeing their TV ads and just like with Sonic’s commercials, I instantly feel compelled to look up just where these non-NYC chains exist in these parts.  New Jersey, of course. I figured I could squeeze in a visit while scoping out the Norma Kamali collection at Wal-Mart (kind of eh, but I enjoy being a L instead of an XL at Wal-Mart. Oh, just figured out that I'm now a L by most chain store standards--guess my sugar/starch limiting has finally paid off. Unfortunately, "bottomless fries" will show up later in this missive) and picking up hair darkening shampoo and conditioner at Menlo Park Mall’s Aveda (I overheard the cashier mention her food court break at Chick-fil-A. I totally would’ve gone if Red Robin wasn’t already on my itinerary. Even she knew about the “hidden” NYU cafeteria Chick-fil-A).

James wanted to go to Five Guys, but what’s the fun in that? We can walk to the one in Brooklyn Heights if we wanted. No, I’d rather spend $20 in tolls and drive 34 miles to find out that frankly, even a well-done Five Guys burger is kind of preferable to Red Robin’s “gourmet burgers” cooked to an internal temperature of your choice.

It wasn’t so much the food, but the inept service and overall Saturday night suburban mayhem that detracted. Yes, I have standards even for chain restaurants.

I wasn’t sure what to make of the we card if you look under 39 1/ 2 deal. I don’t think they were joking, but I still chortled when asked for my ID and being pointed at the button stating just that pinned to our server’s (who’d just turned 21, we were informed for no reason) shirt. Like if I’m going to illegally purchase drinks, I’m heading to a NJ Red Robin. I know they’re just doing what they’re told, and maybe I should’ve been more weirded out that the bartender who barely looked out of middle-school didn’t card me earlier. I like to believe I don’t look 40+ even to someone half my age.

 We took cues from the locals and ordered the onion ring appetizer, which is admittedly kind of an odd starter. And it practically became a dessert since we weren’t brought our tower until asking about it after we’d received our burgers. This is the glitch that soured me. I don’t think it’s petty to have a separation between courses whether that is onion rings on a pole served with dipping sauces and a jalapeno laden burger or prawns with sunchoke puree and garlic confit and grass fed burger with Cotswold cheese (the same timing issue bothered me at James in Prospect Heights a few months ago).

I’m tempted to declare chipotle sauce (mayo) the new ranch but it appears that America is embracing the two equally, together. Both came with these onion rings. And the combo isn’t exactly new to Frito-Lay or Rachael Ray, for that matter.

I’m not one who rambles on about fat percentages or meat blend ratios, but I will say that lately I’ve swung into the less is more camp. If you can’t even taste the meat in your burger, then what’s the point? There was a bit too much going on in this 5 Alarm Burger, which was more than obvious from the name. All the lettuce, jalapeños, salsa and tomatoes overwhelmed and I couldn’t even detect the pepperjack cheese even though I could see it. Really, I was more interested in the fries and onion rings and consequently grew too full too quickly to eat more than a third of this. Beer and starch has a way of doing that.

The thick cut fries sprinkled with their trademark seasoning (that also sits in a big plastic shaker on the table) were tasty enough that I ate most of them, but I’d much prefer a thin crispy fry to a fat meaty one. I think they make them hearty on purpose to eliminate anyone actually taking them up on their bottomless fry promise. Yes, you heard that right--all-you-can-eat fries.

Red Robin * 6200 Hadley Rd., South Plainfield, NJ

Kimchi Hana & Bon Chon Chicken Staten Island

Coordinating out-of-the-city errands isn’t always easy. I wanted drivable Korean fried chicken but that would involve Queens or Northern New Jersey and neither of those were places where I wanted to shop (Union and Middlesex counties).

Then I remembered Bon Chon Staten Island, which would be en route to my desired part of the Garden State. Initially, I didn’t believe there was such a branch, but more than once I found those keywords misguidedly bringing searchers to this site so I had to investigate. Yes, there’s Korean fried chicken in Staten Island. Weird. For all its bravado, Brooklyn certainly lacks in the Asian food arena, multiple Chinatowns or not.

But I wanted sit-down rather than takeout, which was the impression I’d gotten about S.I., so fried chicken was nixed and general Korean was substituted into the schedule. I’ll admit that I’m kind of a Korean food idiot having never ventured past the obvious like bbq and bibimbap. I do like spicy and pickled so there’s no reason why I should avoid it, it’s just never around.

Based on some internet randomness, I settled on Kimchi Hana in South Plainfield’s Middlesex Mall.  Now, Middlesex Mall is only a mall in that there’s a row of storefronts; some are empty, others occupied by the likes of Dollar Tree, Radio Shack (which saved my life with in-stock earphone pads. Do you know how difficult it is to find replacement pads for earbuds in stores? I ended up ordering from Amazon and incorrectly buying the wrong size, which were the circumference of an oatmeal cookie) and a more busted looking Macy’s than the one on Fulton Mall, which also isn’t a real mall. I knew what I was in for after reading a local resident’s lament.

What didn’t occur to me was to make a reservation. I clearly don’t have the suburban know-how down because I don’t equate strip mall restaurants with advance planning. And it was busy at an early-ish 7pm, but not insanely so. No one was waiting in the lobby when we showed up. We weren’t asked if we had reservations, though, just whether or not we wanted a bbq table. It seemed like getting a grill would be a problem, plus I trying to expand my culinary horizons, so we went the easiest route and agreed to any table available, which ended up being a standard four-seater in the back half of the smoky room.

This was fine for about ten minutes while we tried to interpret some language on the menu. There was a section of grilled meats but it said you could only order those at bbq tables (though later we noticed cast iron plates of kalbi and the like on grill-free tables. Perhaps they meant you just couldn’t cook it yourself?). While pondering, a woman who seemed to be the boss, came over and told us that we needed to move because someone had reserved this table.

Here we go…the Saturday night nuisance again (and I don’t need anonymous assholes telling me to stay home, thanks, everyone’s entitled to a reasonable dining experience). I don’t mind sitting at a two-top but I could already foresee a problem with fitting dishes into the abbreviated space. The banchan alone (which I do love about Korean cuisine) would take up a majority of the open area.

 

There were seven dishes, a spinach-like vegetable was off to the left. Those pictured included kimchi, baby bok choy, bean curd, octopus, radish and seaweed.

And sure enough, after ordering two appetizers and two entrees we were admonished, “That’s a lot of food.” No, not really. We were ordering a reasonably sized meal and it was now up to them to figure out how they were going to fit all of the dishes.

Sashimi came first, and the raised wooden board wasn’t too much of a hindrance. These were some hefty slabs of fish and considerably fresher than the disconcertingly room temperature slices I’d been served the previous day at Gold St. in the Financial District.

 

The girthy pajun arrived soon after. Pan-fried cakes can get a little doughy, though this seafood-stuffed one maintained a fair amount of crispiness. I will admit that these greasy treats are probably better divvied up between more than two diners, especially since it doesn’t lend itself to leftovers.

 

The seafood hot pot was a bit problematic to eat because of broth’s high temperature (the photo is steamy) and the weight of the vessel. Normally, I would ask for two small bowls as other tables seemed to have but there was nowhere to put them. So, I had to carefully rearrange the other dishes and scoot the little cauldron near me, trying not to splash, eat a few bites, then maneuver it back towards James so he could have some.

The soup was black pepper and chile flake hot, the type that doesn’t hit until you swallow and get the urge to cough. A little of everything was included: shell-on crab chunk, clams, tiny shrimp, hefty tofu squares, wedges of fish and decorative pink-rimmed fish cake slice. It seemed right for a spring day that had turned chilly and wet.

 

Chicken was a misstep. I still had fried chicken on the brain so those two words jumped out at me from the kan poong gi description, but as you can see it was essentially sweet and sour chicken. There was a hint of heat and a scattering of bizarrely firm peas and carrots. It wasn’t horrific by any means but wasn’t what I was craving.

The danger of not eating what you wanted is that you (ok, I) will just end up double dinnering to make up for that empty feeling (in your soul, not your stomach, duh). But really, would two measly midnight snack wings harm anyone?

Jose Tejas

I was under the impression that this nutty Tex-Mex Cajun restaurant along Route 1 was a rare independent venue. Maybe it didn’t look glossy enough or maybe I was won over by the enormous blue and white sign visible from a distance that simply reads EAT. But I was wrong; it is a chain and one that more commonly goes by Border Café. Actually, I wasn’t acquainted with Border Café either but now I know.

I can’t figure out why the receipt I received says Iselin yet their website says both Iselin and Woodbridge. New Jersey is annoying like that, every mile practically puts you in a different township and makes my pull down menu look like I’ve been all over the state when really I travel in a close radius around Middlesex and Union counties.

Speaking of the neighborhood, not too long ago a friend started dating a guy who lives about ten minutes from Jose Tejas. This is a very exciting development because New Jersey chain dining has always been a solitary activity. I mean, another and myself are involved but it’s not like we ever have company along (for good reason, certainly). Can you imagine anything sexier than a double date at Bonefish Grill? Unfortunately, I suspect a Valentine’s reservation has already been made somewhere and not likely in the garden state.

It hasn’t taken much for me to conclude that there just aren’t enough giant chain restaurants to satisfy the tri-state population (and what’s this I hear about the Cheesecake Factory being a freaking hotspot in Hartford, CT?). No matter where and when you go it’s a madhouse. And the unusually cheap prices at Jose Tejas—my $8.97 enchiladas were one of the more expensive items—certainly contribute to the popularity. But I cannot allow human obstacles to get in the way of my chain discovery missions.

We went between lunch and dinner on a Saturday and were quoted a 35-minute wait. Normally, I would’ve left but trying to get on the correct side of the highway and then finding parking had already wasted twenty minutes and I couldn’t fathom a plan B. Even the large bar area was jam-packed, and a nasty old lady tried picking a fight with us for blocking her way. I have zero patience with the nice elderly so I had to restrain myself from knocking her block off.

I don’t trust margaritas from machines, not so much out of hygiene or authenticity issues but because I fear a light hand with the alcohol. A bottle of Dos Equis and a requisite basket of corn chips with salsa suited me fine while waiting. And immediately two stools opened up. It was as if the hand of god, or possibly the ghost of Jose Tejas (assuming he's a real human being and that he's no longer living), reached down and cleared a space for us.

Eating lightly would’ve been smart in preparation for the next day’s inescapable Super Bowl gluttony. But how does one even accomplish such a thing at a restaurant with salads that come in those ‘80s fried tortilla bowls? No, we went all out and shared the chorizo flambado, which is essentially a shitload of melted cheese dotted with chorizo. I swear the chorizo was actually ground beef or Italian sausage but the grease and fat effect was still achieved. You eat this concoction with warm flour tortillas, creating scoopable quesadillas.

I wasn’t touching the Cajun side of the menu. That cuisine is hard to pull off properly even in its own element but in NYC it always tastes like dry, spiced mud. Actually, we joked that dirt might be a secret ingredient while in New Orleans a few years ago; the food all has this earthy flavor that seems to go beyond cumin and cayenne.

I usually order seafood burritos or enchiladas in these types of places, which doesn’t seem intuitive. It’s just that the chicken is always dry, the beef is ground (I don’t like ground beef outside of hamburgers) and pork is rarely on the menu period. I’m also not crazy about fish tacos because battered fried seafood makes me hurl (however, battered fried candy is A-OK). And my crawfish and shrimp stuffed tortillas came sauced to the nines. At least I diligently ate half of everything and saved the rest for a late night dinner. Since this was my first meal of the day, I didn’t feel so bad about the caloric value being spread out over twelve hours.

Jose Tejas * 700 Rt. 1 N., Iselin, NJ

Fuddruckers

Even though I have an irrational fascination with chains (yesterday on my way to see Cloverfield in Astoria I noticed a brand new Panera Bread and Applebee's set to grand open tomorrow. Along with the pre-existing Pizzeria Uno across the street, this micro-suburbia off Northern Blvd. is simultaneously soothing and baffling), Fuddruckers has never been part of my repertoire.

To my recollection, I'd only dined at one once in my life, at least twenty-five years ago. I know I was wowed by all the diy condiments, and I believe that I begged for a repeat performance whenever driving past the 82nd Street location on route to Clackamas Town Center. But I could just be imagining the longing and letdown because this was a common routine; my family rarely ate out, which was more a standard of the times than a commitment to thriftiness. I really don't think that children raised pre-'90s went out to eat, fast food included, frequently as they do now.

So, Saturday night Fuddruckers in Bridgewater was an accident (that we would drive 45 miles and spend $15 in tolls to return a defective mail-ordered Best Buy Dust Devil is a testament to how much NYC box stores suck). Red Lobster was our intended target, but even I can't justify a 75-minute wait for Cheddar Bay biscuits. Just on the other side of the Red Bull Motel (do you think they petitioned for another Red business in their parking lot?) was Fuddruckers, a total mystery to me.

I didn't know the menu and I completely didn't understand the ordering process. I felt feeble-minded standing just shy of the line-up maze, gaping at the wall. The clatter, balloons and children (don't be fooled by the false calmness in the above photo) didn't help my decision making but I figured out that there are lots of things other than burgers but it would be ridiculous to try them on a maiden visit and that burgers come in combo meals with the specialty variations  listed on another panel.

Ok, I chose The Inferno, a 1/3-pounder with jalapenos, fried onions and pepper jack. And a Heineken because even though Fuddruckers is fast food-like, they do serve beer. I guess that makes it more fast-casual, in industry parlance. I was not allowed my requested medium-rare, medium is the needlessly strict minimum, though not as harsh as Five Guys well-done only rule.

You then get a beeper and are left to hunt down an open table. After settling for about ten minutes later you'll be summoned to the side counter, handed your food and set loose on the condiments.  I took a few pumps of nacho cheese, chipotle mayonnaise for my fries and added a smear of spicy bbq sauces to my burger. I'm fairly sparing with add ons.

Yet condiment-abusers abounded. I was disproportionately grossed out by a college aged girl with her family at a nearby table who overfilled two giant plastic containers (larger than the little ones everyone else had) with ketchup. Actually, I more grossed out by her scrunchy-tamed pontytail, sweats and sporty rubber slip on sandals. I have a violent inexplicable aversion to that half-athletic/half-schlubby look. These are the same girls who wear flannel pajama bottoms with cartoon characters on them in public and think fleece is dressy. I had to avert my eyes every time she went for a ketchup dip.

After I got over the perceived sloppiness and topping spillage, I was faced with a pretty good burger that held its shape and retained enough juiciness despite the longer cooking time. The peppers were surprisingly hot, hence The Inferno moniker. The fries fell into the mealy steak fry camp, which I'll certainly eat even though I prefer thin, crispy strips (but not shoestring) over hefty wedges.

It was satisfying without crossing over into monstrous territory (though they do offer a one-pound burger). I do fear the Baconators of the world. On that note, Portfolio just published a substantial article and interesting sidebars on the unabashed gluttony trend touted in particular by Carl Jr's and Hardee's. Knowing that the Double Six Dollar Burger contains around 95% of my recommended daily calories almost makes me want to try it, so clearly their backwards marketing works.

Fuddruckers * 1271 Route 22 W., Bridgewater, New Jersey

Quiznos

The Quiznos in the parking lot of Linden New Jersey’s Aviation Plaza shopping center is the only one I’ve ever been to, and three times now. I work across the street from one and never go. This shopping center off Route 1 has become my go-to weekend destination for important destinations like Target, Old Navy, Marshall’s, Home Depot, a 24-hour Shop Rite (I like grocery shopping post 10pm), not so much the Polish and Slavic Credit Union or Avenue, but I was excited to find Applejack at Pied Piper Liquors—none of the shops in my immediate neighborhood sell it. And we persist in doing a bulk of our shopping out this way even though it costs a ridiculous $15 in tolls (the west coaster in me still can’t fathom such nonsense) to go through Staten Island into Union County.

And I found myself at Quiznos again this weekend because it was 5pm, I hadn’t eaten lunch yet (that’s what happens when you get out of bed at noon) and was starving but didn’t want to ruin my appetite because Sichuan food in Flushing was going to happen around 8:30pm. Applebee’s, Chevy’s and Boulder Steakhouse were out of the question; this was the perfect opportunity to try one of those two-dollar, despicably named Flatbread Sammies I saw advertised on TV last week. Yes, advertising works on me.

This is the Bistro Steak Melt, much flatter and less stuffed than the promotional shots. They’re not bad, though a little mixed up, using flatbread, meat, mozzarella, peppercorn sauce and what seems to be salsa. Middle Eastern? Mexican? I guess that’s wholly American. I don’t believe that they are terribly healthy but for something small and cheap to supplement my brought-from-home apple and yogurt it beats the $3.85 half-sandwich at Pret a Manger. (11/18/07)