The problem with Rudy’s is that it tries too hard. Well trying hard wouldn’t really be a problem if it tried and succeeded, but since all endeavor is ultimately futile anyway, there’s not much chance of that now. Is there?
Look at the name of this restaurant. It is the main point of the photo; if you don't look at the name, the photo will have been in vain.
Most aspects of the restaurant were delightful.
- A stunning menu
- Bold choice of music (funk)
- Enthusiastic and friendly staff
- Many interesting (and unfortunately incompatible) elements of art and décor.
Fatty: The experience kicked off with a strong Italian theme. Red, white, and green subtly intruding into the evening in the form of light shades, structural elements, and artwork. Maybe this isn’t such of a problem in general, however, the menu isn’t strictly Italian by any stretch of the imagination, and these days nationalism leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
The highlight of the evening was potentially the staff who, as enumerated, were both friendly and enthusiastic. It’s hard to restrain your lust for life when confronted with the most precocious of woodland trolls, but something tells me that this exuberance has, and will, be maintained all year round. A plethora of horseplay, jokes, anecdotes, and bright smiles were not overwrought, and so roundly appreciated.
If you’ll let me, I’ll tell you a story of a chance encounter I had with a traveling salesman. I too was on a journey, as I was heading from Michigan to Louisiana. How I ended up in Chicago is another story altogether. The evening was drawing to a close as I desperately tried to find some accommodation. A growing storm served as encouragement when I entered a hotel by the outer harbor. Once again my hopes of finding a bed were dashed as the clerk “Vincent” informed me that they were out of rooms. He must have noticed my desperation though, as he hesitated, and then told me that there might be an opportunity to stay for free, as it were, if I were willing to share a room with his friend who was also staying there gratis. It was a perk of the job to receive accommodation, I found, and Vincent rarely needed to take advantage of this. Therefore he had let his friend make sure that the opportunity din’t go to waste. His friend’s name was Quinn. An odd name that I wouldn’t soon forget. He was “a citizen of the world” as I learned. He didn’t have a permanent country of residence. Even more bizarrely than that, he had somehow made it into America without a passport.
He assured me that his friend would not mind in the slightest if he had a sudden unexpected roommate. “It’s just how he is”. He handed me a room-key “654″ and told me that, as long as I didn’t damage anything, there should be no problems staying here for up to three days if need be. I told Vincent that one night would almost certainly be sufficient, thanked him repeatedly, and then prepared myself to meet Quinn and made my way up the stairs to level 6. I approached room 54 with the air of false confidence that one can only muster when prepared in advance to meet a complete stranger with whom you will be living with (even if temporarily). I opened the door cautiously and looked around the room. Well… Quinn was not in. It had appeared that he was out on the town at present, so I did my best to put it out of my mind. I threw myself exhausted on one of the beds, and promptly fell into a deep sleep.
… Is what this monacled man might proffer:
Tally bally wot wot.
Jap: And now – Food.
You know that you are in good company when the menu, in a somewhat understated fashion offers up a tantalizing suggestion – “Rabbit”:
Whaaaaa?
The rabbit was a little dry, but only enough to casually remind me from time to time, that I was not, in fact, in heaven, but sitting in a restaurant. The accompanying drink was also a spiritual experience. It was a latte infused with ammaretto. I later found that this is, for some strange reason, referred to as an “amaretto latte”. Whatevs. These two tantalizing treats were individually outstanding, however, in this combination the partnership was unfortunately somewhat less than the sum of its parts. The sweet milky almond most assuredly clashed with the caramelized citrus textures of the duck-dish. This was entirely my own fault, as I was the one who made such a bizarre request. I would have liked my waiter to point out that I might be making a mistake, but I suppose that either caution won the day and he decided to follow the golden rule “the customer is always right”, or (and I hope this is incorrect) he simply did not know that the two choices would be incompatible.
Yum.
Fatty: Apple Pie! You can’t go wrong with good old apple pie, except if the pastry is dry or soggy, or the apple is mushy, or there isn’t enough cinnamon in it, or the slice falls apart when you serve it. Luckily, none of these things occurred! Oh happy day! This was a good pie indeed! The icecream was good (a nice big scoop too!), and the little strawberries on the side were a lovely touch.
Why is this table number has coke on?
Jap: Exhibit A.
Rudy… Are you aware of the term “Product Placement”? Don’t answer that. It’s a rhetorical question. I’m sure you know what product placement is, just as I’m sure you know that it is always less subtle than desired, always comes across as tacky, as a failed attempt at shrewdness, and never really dissociates from the memory of the occasion upon which it intruded.
Rudy, I hope you were lucratively compensated for this indiscretion. I hope you made more than you will lose in the hearts and minds of your customers. I really do. I don’t think you’re a bad person, just misguided. I hope you were thoroughly compensated… But. Somehow I doubt this. I think you were swindled. I think you truly didn’t realize what you were getting yourself into until it was too late. You probably even made yourself a slave to corporate consumerism for the mockery of a reward: “Free Table Numbers”.
Now I know. I know you acted within the bounds of the law. Well the law is and always will be an ass. You might walk out of this courtroom “innocent” of any crime our society has deemed to put down in legislature, but we both know that you have violated a higher ethical, no, moral code. So go. Walk free. You will always know what you have done…
I despair for mankind.
Your honor. I rest my case.
Fatty: Except that there is one more thing, your honor. Did you ever visit a sophisticated establishment with such disappointing bathroooms? I could hardly bear to visit them! Please consider this in your verdict!
Fatty: And how about the drinks? Jap has already waxed lyrical about the amaretto latte but I did have a sip, and let me tell you… Iced coffee. Drink of kings. And overweight Totoros. It was creamy, strong, icy, no cream on top (I’m not sure how I feel about that) – all round, quite tasty but nothing to rave on about.
Amaretto. Maybe.
Jap is right to grin - what an amazing drink.
Drinks are drinks, but food is food. What is drinks though? Peppermint tea is drinks. This is a fact. Facts are food. Food for the mind.
To describe the cookie would be to defile the cookie.
Jap: It’s easy to get carried away with delicious dining delights. It’s easy to forget our fallen brethren. The true heros of this once proud nation. But once. Just this once. Let’s remember the ANZACs.
They were absolutely delicious. It’s true, the cookie could have been tastier. But that would require it to have come fresh out of the oven. Since these deserts were, understandably, pre-made. There wasn’t much chance of this happening.
Fatty: Good lord Jap, it looks like there’s some commotion going on in the restaurant! Shall we call the police?
Jap: Quiet Fatty, it’s no drama, that man is just giving his colleague a massage. That’s the kind of friendly place this is! Maybe a little too friendly?
Never you mind.
Then again the friendliness could just be a facade for a surprise attack – it looks like Rudy’s is preparing for war! Here’s their shield, shining defiantly, ready to deflect the blows of even the mightiest food critics! Watch out Jap, we’re in for a real fight here!
What if it was a coat of arms, which are made of coats?
They can’t stop us having a good hard stare at the offensively bad flooring though. What is this, a concrete factory? Step up your game, or get a real job!
This floor ruined the whole ambiance of the place.
But I am too harsh, just look at those gentle eyes and ask yourself: can you really hate a man who loves Totoro with all his heart and soul? His food may be only a little above average, his iced coffees might not have cream on them, but his heart is made of solid gold and so we must forgive him his little shortcomings. Thank you Mr Rudy!
Only to be thwarted by the neko-basu.
