800 Congress Avenue
Austin, TX
(512) 477-8968
You know those things in life that are awesomely bad? Like Showgirls. Let's be real: who can resist the campy trash fest that gave us permission to love Jessie Spano for licking a stripper pole? That's right: no one. In a bizarre flip of reality, sometimes things can be so bad they actually become good.
Sadly, this is not the case with the Hickory Street Bar & Grill. It's just so bad; it's well...really fucking bad. The first ominous sign was that the place was a complete ghost town at 9 pm on a Friday night. We should have turned around that first instant. However, my friend was so totally sold on, "this great little place called Hickory Street" that no one had the heart to crap all over her hard work coordinating a largish group of friends on a Friday night. Instead, we braved forward, despite the lack of patrons and incidentally, staff.
Upon sitting down, one olfactory-keen friend asked, "Does it smell like urine to anyone else? Seriously, like piss?" Yeah, we most definitely should have turned around in that second instant.
Okay, okay, so the restaurant smelled less like delicious food and more like a construction site port-o-potty, but I held out hope. Our waitress seemed less than thrilled to be serving us. Quite shocking really, considering we were the only people in the restaurant. In such a deserted establishment, one might think she would be pleased to have another $30 in her pocket. But somehow, it just felt like we were cramping her style.
We hardly saw our waitress and the food took just over half an hour to come out. Again, quite shocking considering we were the only people in the restaurant. Although most of it was cold, no one wanted to risk waiting another half hour for new food, or a loogie in said food. So we ate in quiet suffering.
For kicks, I decided to try a bit of the salad bar action. Big mistake. The restaurant itself was quite dirty and the salad bar was a reflection of that carelessness. The trays were the metal prison kind -not that I've been in prison, but still- that didn't exactly help my feeling that we were about to eat chow reserved for penitentiary cafeterias. The produce was sad looking and generally grimy.
Eventually, food did arrive at our table. I was greatly looking forward to my Marley Fest Tacos, made with Jamaican jerk-rubbed Tilapia and mango salsa. Both tacos had approximately two flakes of bland fish, a heap of red cabbage and a touch of mango salsa; all amounting to a flavor explosion equal to a bowl of lukewarm grits. With no butter. Or salt. The Mexican rice on my plate actually held its round-scoop-shape completely intact, probably because it was dried out and cold. The black beans were equally gloomy, carrying a grayish tinge only achieved by a lifetime in a can, followed by hours under a heating lamp in a metal tin.
My friend who dragged us all to this restaurant had an order of nachos, which looked like an experiment with pasteurized cheese product gone awry. Like everyone else's food, her tortilla chips were punished with cold, dried out toppings. In her own words, "This is shit, but I'm eating it 'cause I'm paying for it, and you can quote me on that."
Around the rest of the table circulated unmemorable sandwiches and burnt tasting French fries. A couple friends were wise enough to order chicken strips, which thanks to flash frying, at least simulated the taste of fresh fare.
One week later, and my friend is still apologizing for the poor restaurant choice. As restitution, I am forcing her to watch Showgirls with me. Sober.
by Phyllis Anastasia Gasper
[Photos: Shannon Sady]