Exile in Guyville at Twin Peaks | Rock Candy

Exile in Guyville at Twin Peaks




I'm going to give the new Little Rock location of Twin Peaks a bad review, but not because the restaurant goes overboard with punny-but-not-funny jokes about the female anatomy — although it does. And I'm not going to give the place a bad review because perched atop the "hunting lodge-themed" restaurant are two superfluous water tanks with pointy tops crowned by a pair of blinking red lights — although that's tacky. I'm not going to give the place a bad review because their beer is served at a tasteless 29 degrees and in sizes called "Man" and "Girl" — although that's either extremely sexist to a woman who likes a big beer now and again or quite emasculating for a guy who just wants a taste. I won't give the place a bad review for serving terrible cinnamon whiskey on a snow-ski and shouting "Shotski! Shotski!" although I find that repugnant on all levels. I'm not even going to give the place a bad review because as we walked up, the numerous loud speakers were blaring Van Halen's "Hot for Teacher," although David Lee Roth's voice has always awakened my hate and rage since the earliest times I can remember.

No, I'm not going to give the Dallas-based "breastaurant" a bad review based on any of those things. I'm going to give it a bad review because the food was simply some of the worst, most apathetic swill I've ever eaten.


Perhaps the great sages and poets of antiquity could come up with words and phrases to describe how bad the food at Twin Peaks actually is, but I am neither poet nor sage. Were I one, I would perhaps say that Socrates' draught of hemlock would be preferable to the things I consumed at this "man cave-inspired" temple to objectifying the female form; or perhaps that I understood Homer's tale of the Lotus Eaters all the better given that the food at Twin Peaks made me forget what it was like to know deliciousness and flavor. But I am just a man, a man that was raised too damned Southern Baptist to enjoy the promised "scenic views" — and raised on too many Southern Baptist potlucks to enjoy the food.

The meal began with a basket of fried pickles, a waitress with a nose ring and a large torso tattoo, and Joan Jett screaming that she hated herself for loving me. The pickles were passable, crisp and salty as a fried pickle should be, the obligatory cup of ranch pulsating with the sound of the bass and possibly the spike in testosterone coming from the guys at the table behind me. Our scantily-clad lady lumberjack made sure to tell us all about how the food at Twin Peaks is made from scratch — everything fresh and never frozen. Maybe that's true, but those pickles weren't anything out of the ordinary. Still, as beginnings go, it might not be "Call me Ishmael," but it wasn't terrible.

If only we had left then, because what followed will go down in history as one of the worst meals I've ever eaten — and I had $1 breakfast pizza from the Kum and Go this morning. My dining companion ordered the "Mile High Club," a sandwich stacked two deep on a skewer and served with a pile of limp fries coated with a heavy dose of what might have been dollar store season salt. The sandwich itself was possessed of a singular flavor, and that flavor was salt. Cheap ham, cheap turkey, and cheap bacon all combined to make a sandwich even more forgettable than my car keys after a long night of sustaining head injuries (and quite a bit less pleasant).

But the gravest crime committed against good taste, even worse than the trampy camp counselor shorts worn by the servers, was the Steak Sliders, a dish that was an insult to both beef and sliders. The "steak" was more like bland pot roast that had been cooked while wrapped in a well used horse blanket. Each bite of these sliders was worse than the previous one, and no amount of dipping in the provided au jus or horseradish did anything to cover up the strange, dirty flavor of the fatty medallions of well-done beef. I'm a man who has eaten pork intestine hot pots and sheep testicles and I couldn't make it through all four sliders due to the foul flavor and odd texture.

Bottom line? If your idea of a night out is staring at girls in glorified bikinis who will bring you beer and flirt with you for tips, and if you want to add numerous televisions to the mix — this is your place. If you want good food, don't waste one second of your time even thinking about Twin Peaks, because it all may be made from scratch, but it isn't made with any discernible talent.

Twin Peaks is located in that guilty place right behind the center of your stomach that always made you feel weird when you lied to your mother. Oh, and also at 10 Shackleford Drive, where once Cozymel's stood.

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