The Red Lobster: A Unique Experience
Pros: I’m not dead. Red Lobster did not kill me.
Cons: Tap water residue flavored lobster; bland, unseasoned dish; retarded prices; hair cooked into biscuit; I feel sick
Score: 1/10
After countless humorous references, threats, sarcastic insults, and general camaraderie about denouncing the Red Lobster, something strange happened. “Shut up, or we’re eating at the Red Lobster tonight,” I’d say. But soon it developed into a strange kind of tension, not unlike sexual tension in which two people make edgy jokes with each other and laugh, though what they really want to do with each other is the content of the edgy jokes. One day, I had to break the ice with my girlfriend: “we make fun of it alot, but why don’t we try it? It’s lobster, how bad can lobster be?,” I open-mindedly mused. She felt the same way, so one free evening we decided to give it a try, to maybe see if we were just being irrationally prejudiced when we mock-vomited during Red Lobster commercials, threatening suicide as an alternative to eating there. If we’re going to be extreme in our facetious claims, we ought to be justified in some way, right?
Thus began our adventure to the crawl-spaces of the sea. We traveled over to the good old “Franchise Restaurant District Because of Low Land Values in the 90s” and found that the Red Lobster there is not run down or damaged in any way, does not appear to have any rodent infestations, and has stale-looking but clean furnishings. I was already thrilled enough by the fact that we did not flee in horror upon arrival (”keep driving, keep driving”), as we have on other occasions involving a skating rink and a bowling alley on Thursday nights. I felt hope in my heart.
The place wasn’t full, but it wasn’t empty either. Maybe I’m just being an unreasonable stickler for service worth the money I pay, but I felt that it took us an irregularly long period of time to get seated when there was no wait (about 10 minutes). At the front, to entertain us in the meantime was the aquarium with live lobsters, ripe for the slaughter. At this aquarium we stood and stared for the entire 10 minutes, like idiots. In our defense, the lobsters, while stacked on one another and unable to find privacy to take a shit (or whatever lobsters do), were anthropologically far more interesting than any of the patrons of the establishment. One of the employees came by and pulled a couple of lobsters out of the tank, most likely for the purpose of their GRUESOME DOOM. One lobster, in a last act of defiance, opened up its rubber-band-bound claw-arms as if to say “someone give me a freakin’ hug.” The employee walked past us quite closely and we squeezed together awkwardly to avoid the unfortunate accident of it touching us, as if to say “hell no.” Dude, they’re crustaceans. they don’t have a soul.
However, there is something to be said about the cruel method with which the lobsters are prepared. IT’S FUCKING SWEET. First, they take it from its overcrowded lobster orphanage, then they throw it, alive, into a pot of boiling water. Next, it SHRIEKS as it is boiled to death. Lastly, its lifeless head and limbs are removed, and its entrails are pulled out of its shell for proper presentation. My only grievance with this method is that it gives animal rights activists sympathy ammunition: “it’s SHRIEKING, like MAKING NOISE, like OUR VOICES DO. Do YOU want to be put in boiling water?” Yeah, it’s true. If I was a mindless sub-sentient sea creature, I wouldn’t really want to- BECAUSE I WOULDN’T REALLY CARE ABOUT OR KNOW ANYTHING. Besides, it is a little weird to be watching something animate and alive, and then be eating it less than 30 minutes later. Worst of all, it’s very confusing for children who just watched The Little Mermaid, to the point where they’ll become animal rights activists after seeing their new lobster pal Sebastian in father’s mouth. But I digress.
We cased out the menu, and gazed in awe at the prices, which were not Denny’s-esque as we expected, but quite high. We ordered the “Lobster Lover’s Dream” item. This exquisite culinary experience features one Maine Lobster, one Rock Lobster, and a shrimp and lobster pasta. Honestly, it sounds appealing. I like shrimp. I like lobster. I like pasta. I like shrimp and/or lobster pastas. “This ought to be an orgy of hedonistic indulgence,” said I.
What a disaster. The pasta, which I thought in no way could go wrong, was flavorless and drenched in a crème, probably canned and milky trans fat. The Rock Lobster was gargantuan, and, in appropriate positive proportion, disgusting. Its flavor was of boiled water, and its texture can be described as squeaky. The lobster possessed no flavor of its own, but of the utensils and the cooking method. It’s like going to a barbecue and eating steak that tastes like the grill more than a cow.
What the hell do the lobsters have to shriek about? They’re not the ones who have to eat rock lobster. Then again, when they’re getting boiled to death, they must be tasting the same 80s-plumbing-shit-water-taste that I get from eating them.
The mashed potatoes we ordered as a side were decent. Mashed potatoes in 19th-century Ireland were also decent, so this isn’t really a statement of comparative merit.
Now, let’s talk for a second about an interesting facet of our dining experience: the biscuits. They tasted alright, in as much as the most fattening and buttery white-flour products ought to taste like fucking heaven. If something is going to be so unhealthy, it better be delicious, and the Red Lobster biscuits are less than mediocre. But, let’s talk about one specific feature of the biscuit: the hair cooked into it. Yes. There was a HAIR in my biscuit. One might ask, “couldn’t it have simply fallen on your food from you?” Indeed, that is a very plausible explanation, one we ourselves posited. To test our fine hypothesis, I attempted to pull the hair out. Now, for those of you who know hair, it’s usually so light that when you touch it, it sticks to your finger, or flies away. I touched this hair, and it did not budge. I pulled the hair, and it did not budge. The hair, was cooked, INTO, my biscuit. Lacking any other option besides feeding it to the lobsters, which clearly would have been an issue of animal rights, I gouged it out with the water-spotted tinware. Then, almost as in spite, as if to say, “I am invincible!,” I ate the rest of the biscuit, to show the Red Lobster that I had seen their challenge and was not backing down. This was a fight, possibly to the death. But I’d be damned if I let a D-rated restaurant scare me into submission, and I’d be damned if I let it kill me. As you can tell by this review, I fought the Red Lobster and lived to tell the tale.
The more I think of it, the more the Kentucky Fried Lobster analogy holds. Grease-wad biscuits; mashed ‘taters; lowest quality possible of the food class listed in title. The only distinction I can really think of is pricing. Frankly, I thought the place would be cheap. And certainly it was: in the quality sense, but not in the monetary sense. Our Finger Lickin’ Good Crustaceous Tropical Paradise carried a rock-lobster-hefty price tag of $33. Yes. $33.
“Maybe you just don’t like lobster.” Rest assured, that possibility was well-controlled in this experiment. Miccosukee Resort & Gaming’s $7 Steak & Lobster (yes, $7) produces a smaller, but worlds more pleasing lobster than RL does. AND YOU GET A FREAKING STEAK TOO, and biscuits made of bread. Bonefish Grill serves twin lobster tails for $27, with better sides, better service, better ambience, and, of course, better lobster. Look, I’m not claiming to be a lobster connoisseur. I admit that I go to restaurants and I don’t order the lobster because it’s too expensive. Nonetheless, you don’t need to be a wine connoisseur to point out that a wine tastes not of French grapes, but of a French dude’s grapes.
TIME FOR THE DEDUCTION BASED ON RIGGED PREMISES FOR HUMOR GAME!:
1) Observation: trash eat at Red Lobster.
2) Ubiquitous cliche: “you are what you eat.”
3) Conclusion: therefore, Red Lobster is [blank].
OK, so I just made a mediocre zinger at the proletariat’s expense. But hey, instead of trying to acquire means of production, they swing by the Red Lobster and plunk down a day or two’s pay on some second-rate oceanic eats. It’s just a gigantic paradox to me. There are so many other places where the same money can go so much farther.
So anyway, what’s this shrieking thing like? I never got to hear it, which is one of my chief regrets of this visit besides the visit itself. I imagine the wail of a NAZGUL, but I doubt that’s right. Is it like, a SKREEEEE? or just a high pitched, shrill noise, like moving styrofoam packaging across itself quickly? I know I could probably watch this on youtube, but it’s not the same. I want to experience it real-space, real-time. Until then, I would like someone to describe it to me so I can prepare appropriately.
In short, I would rather kill myself than eat at the Red Lobster again. In due time, my lobster loving dream turned into a lobster shitting nightmare. And, for the record, I will continue to mock-vomit when I see a commercial on TV. Saying that this franchise smells and tastes like my balls is a treat (Note that’s two testicle-tasting references in the same review. I can’t help that it’s appropriate!)