We’re cracked up to be many things. All of which we are. Not many places can say that with a straight face, because most places will fail to live up to expectations. Our face is straight when we say it, cause we’ve managed to lower expectations to the point where there’s no way we don’t meet them.

Some places, you order a steak, say, oh, I dunno, rare. They bring you a steak medium. You send it back. They bring you one rare. So you’re a little crestfallen and wind up saying, yeah, that place ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. (Even a little hiccup like sending a steak back will damage your opinion of a place.) Here, though? Here? Here, you walk in with no misconceptions bout how you’re gonna get your steak, regardless of how you wanna get it. You’re gonna get it medium to medium well to well to might’s well be Kingsford charcoal for how inedible it is. That’s why people no longer ask for it rare. They ask for medium and cross their fingers, hoping for the best.

We’re cracked up to be a place that serves chili that tastes like it’s loaded with A1. It’s not. But it tastes like it is. I can’t figure it out. Scout’s honor, there is no A1 in the chili. Shouldn’t be, anyway. Can’t say I stand there watching each and every batch as its made.

If you’re in the mood for a place that’s everything it’s cracked up to be, vis a vis seeing someone at the bar announce he just pissed himself, then swing on by tonight. Cause tonight’s Thursday, and Thursday night here is Stinkhead night. (Jimmy’s Stinkhead impersonation is four words long: ‘But only a little.’ Cause that’s all Stinkhead ever admits to pissing himself. As if ‘but only a little’ is an acceptable amount and absolves him from just pissing himself in front of people. Note to Stinkhead: ‘Only a little’ absolves you not one bit. It’s still piss and it’s weird how you announce it all the time.)

People crack us up to be a restaurant that can’t spell its own specials on the specials board out front, or dabbles in wordplay it shouldn’t. Here’s another expectation successfully met. This morning, I got here to find the board from last night described our full slob of ribs. I looked and looked and looked for the tail that turned the ‘o’ into an ‘a’ but there was no tail. Goddamn. Slob of ribs. Goddamn.

We’re cracked up to be a place that features a short Mexican man loitering in the women’s restroom. That’d be Rudy. Til my tits fell off, I could tell you he’s just in there changing the paper towel roll, and it’s nothing creepy or untoward, but you just wouldn’t believe me, apparently.

We’re cracked up to have good cole slaw. We do. It’s damn good. It’s a family recipe. We don’t have a whole lotta nice little touches round here that improve things. Cole slaw’s one of ‘em, though. A thing of Glade in the men’s room’s another.

Now, I can’t say this for a hundred percent sure, but … oh, why not, you only live once. Yes, I can and will say it. There’s no way we’re not cracked up to be a place where it’s okay to either clip your fingernails, fart real loud, be blind and take your penis out while you’re waiting for the john, tell a waitress to go fuck herself cause she must be lesbian, or let your kid run around willy-nilly til he smashes face first into a locked door then somehow act like it’s our fault for having a door that’s locked.

The frustrated, flummoxed and nonplussed crack this joint up to be a joint that will make you wait half an hour for a table, even though you were told it’d only be ten minutes or so, and on top of that to boot, there’s like six tables unoccupied. Those who really get the treatment from us will swear up and down, to anyone who’ll listen that this place is a place where you won’t spend much money but still walk away feeling gypped. Also as a place where your meal’ll go untouched by you, yet you’ll leave doubting your appetite will ever return. Also as a place to which only over your dead body will you return. (You’ll return. Oh, you’ll return, all right. Just as soon as that coupon arrives.)

People crack us up to have a shitty parking situation. We do. Though it’s not our fault. You wanna blame someone for why you can’t find parking on a side street so it’s a buck an hour at the meters, blame the mayor.

If you’re a woman who is, shall we say, ample of bosom and buttock, you’ve no doubt had us cracked up to be a place where soon’s you walk in, the kitchen will drop what it’s doing, no matter what it’s doing, and walk out into the doorway to stare at you cause they love women ample of bosom and buttock. The whole kitchen staff, all three of them. Stare at you until you switch places with whoever you came with, so your back is to the kitchen doorway. Then and only then will the kitchen get back into the kitchen.

I’ve seen this mentioned in a few of the local forums, so I know we’re getting cracked up to be a place where if you’re looking for a nice quiet place for dinner, better look elsewhere, cause it’s always loud here. This is true. Unless you’re deaf, you’ll wonder why it’s so damn loud here. I can’t explain it so won’t waste any time trying to. It’s an acoustic thing. Sound carries.

I’m surprised more old people haven’t had heart attacks, to be honest. The crashing, clanging, smashing. How I have yet to see an old guy (or gal) clutching at his (or her) chest as he (or she) keels over is beyond me. Last weekend, I thought we were close. This big loud crashing sound from the back that startled people all the way up at the front. Even for this place, it was loud. I thought for sure people’d get wheeled outta here on stretchers.

The noise was courtesy of Carlos, the dishwasher, who dropped six of the small bowls. Even though I told him countless times five stack nicely, six tip over. So, it looks like he and I are headed for the ‘This is your ass, this is a hole in the ground’ talk.