When the chef at the Wagon Wheel arrived at work this afternoon, God averted his gaze. Being…read moreomniscient, he knew what was coming -- but even his omnipotence wasn't enough to prevent the culinary mortal sin that was inflicted upon our unsuspecting party of five this Tuesday afternoon.
But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. Eating at the Wagon Wheel is an experience, insofar as stubbing your toe is an experience, or contracting leprosy is an experience. Not all experiences are made equal, and some you actively hope to repress the memory of. Such was this.
Let's start with the food. I ordered the steak and shrimp. I expected a juicy, tender piece of New York strip, cooked rare. Instead, I got an under-seasoned, over-cooked piece of desiccated shoe leather.
As for the shrimp, if you bought a $5 slingshot from the boardwalk, you could easily repurpose them as a highly-effective crowd control weapon -- if not for those pesky Geneva Conventions, that is.
Others in my party fared no better. My father-in-law received a pile of dry, chewy ribs that were so over-salted, they seemed almost designed to provoke renal failure. My wife got a hamburger that, she said, made her feel like she swallowed the contents of a cement mixer.
In many respects, she wishes she did -- it certainly would be, gastronomically speaking, a step up from the Wagon Wheel.
My brother-in-law and mother-in-law both ordered the steak -- although they had the presence of mind to avoid the shrimp, which, I add, were a sixteen-dollar surcharge. Sixteen fucking dollars, for four "jumbo" shrimp that were neither jumbo, nor edible. I'm still bitter about that.
Oh yes, their steaks. The medium-rare one was overcooked, and the well done one was undercooked. Now, look: I appreciate the staff at the Wagon Wheel are used to only hearing the words "well done" with a sarcastic tone, like when a puppy shits outside of the house for the first time, but how do you screw up a well done steak? You just cook the fucker until it has the same consistency as the sliced up Doc Martens we were served.
Everything came with a side of baked potatoes -- which, if they were originally baked this year, I would be stunned -- and a thimble of over-boiled broccoli that looked as lethargic and unhealthy as those in our party that finished their meals.
Remember when I said that eating at the Wagon Wheel was an experience? It was one that our servers seemed determined to drag out, serving members of our party at random times, and with massive gaps between each person. The time between the arrival of the first plate and the last was, easily, about twenty minutes.
Whoever said that "good things come to those who wait" was a liar. And this, I add, was at a time when the restaurant was as crowded as Jeffrey Epstein's funeral.
In many respects, it almost felt like a piece of cruel performance art, with the restaurant serving over-salted food designed to sap the moisture out of you, but not actually coming round to take a drink order.
I've rambled. I'm sorry. Let me wrap this up: The Wagon Wheel really is unmitigated bum.