Oliver
08-30-2004, 09:31 PM
Restaurant Review
The Left Wing of a Duck
By Oliver “Omnivore” Lard-Gourmand, Cary Politics Food Critic
This is all hush-hush for the moment, but I have been contacted by a prospective new employer. That’s right, dear readers, I have been in discussions with none other than CPEditor, and we are in cutthroat negotiations over terms. The main point of contention at this time is debate about the comparative sizes of audiences; Admin Hyatt’s Web site reaches a fair number of leading Cary citizens, but CPEditor is making claims about a very wide circulation based on subscription base, but I wish to verify these claims for myself, and so I have been trying to get in touch with the publisher of Cary Politics News to get some numbers. But please, don’t tell Mr. Admin Hyatt about this, because if negotiations break down, the Admin is my only available meal ticket.
In any case, for this month’s review, I received an insider’s tip from Cathy in the form of a post on carypolitics.org. Apparently Ms. Cathy comes from a family of restaurateurs, because she was boasting that her daughter was a deputy administrator of The Duck’s Left Wing restaurant, and so I made this my quest for review this month.
The complications began when I realized that this establishment was not in Cary. Indeed, it was far enough away that it would require me to sojourn overnight, and Admin Hyatt is notoriously tight about incurring extra expenses associated with my five-star reviews (this is surprising, because I would assume that my loyal base of readers would be sufficient for the Admin to generate significant advertising revenue if he would just get serious with the folks at Ronco and Purina. Indeed, this unwillingness to fork over a few smackers to get the quality of reviews I provide is one reason that I have chosen to commence discussions with CPEditor. But I digress).
In any case, I caught Admin Hyatt in a good mood and he agreed to cover my accommodations so that I could review this very special restaurant (things were looking up!), although he insisted that I pay for my own gasoline. So, I set off to find the Duck (it turns out to be to the east, and if you aren’t careful, you can get very wet getting there). Now, let’s get to the heart of the review:
Driving east in my ’83 Skylark from Cary, North Carolina, I finally spot a sign directing me toward the Duck. Exiting the car with my darling cat, Muffkins, I spy the long white limo that the Sandbergs often sends to ferry guests from the hotel to the Left Wing of the Duck. Alas, I am not staying with the Sandbergs; Admin Hyatt has agreed only to put me up in the Motel 4-˝ (the Motel 6 was out of his price range, he says), where I am under strict instructions not to make long-distance calls or watch any pay television. So Muffkins and I get back in the Buick and head to our accommodations.
As we drive into the parking lot of the Motel 4-˝, we see a fleet of Harleys and a Yugo. The Motel 4-˝’s buildings, covered in off-white pre-fab stucco-like material, have a vulgar, shabby-shabby look and verandas furnished with ample gentlemen in black leather and doo-rags, some of whom are engaged in very rapidly emptying bottles of beer. Some other gentlemen are engaged in some sort of transaction that they apparently wish to keep private, and a young lady is discussing the possibilities of a date with several of the gentlemen who are milling about. I gave my usual friendly wave to this crowd, who would be my temporary new neighbors, although I would not categorize the gestures I received in return as terribly friendly. Opening the door to my suite, I carried Muffkins into the room and, as is our custom when we travel, immediately set up her litter box. Once I flipped on the light switch, we found a light-filled space done in dust tones. There’s a huge cockroach in the bathroom and I’ve already told you about the veranda. The bed has a massage feature (5 minutes for a quarter), but I quickly learn that Muffkins does not fancy this one bit. But, unless I am to become a motel reviewer, which isn’t a half-bad idea, I digress.
After unpacking and some quick first aid to the cat scratches on my arms, I set out for the Left Wing of the Duck, the Sandbergs’ Sound restaurant, a tureen, elephant space with floors and ceilings and stunning views of some flagships. My host, Charles, explains that this establishment has a prix fixe menu, which is French for “we decide what to serve, and you have to pay the same whether or not you like the food”. He explains that I can order either the 3-course or 5-course meal; based on my allowance from Admin Hyatt, I choose the 3-course dinner and then advise Charles, with a smirk and a twinkle in my eye, that “I’ll have the Duck, thank you”. Charles rolls his eyes and mutters, “Like I’ve never heard THAT one before!” Things were looking up!
Chefs Georgia, Robin and her son sent out a delightful bouquet of a meat of some sort topped with a beet and parsnip faux gelatinous epee, which wine generalissimo Summer Hairnet paired with a Braunschweiger Fraulein Volkswagen from Pepsi-Cola. With each course, I enjoy a contrast of a food described in French-sounding terms with a beverage that sounds vaguely German or Italian. The main course featured the complex fishy taste of fresh-caught savoir-faire with red crumpets au lait, and a fondue kale debutante on the side. The heavenly dessert, an arc d’triomphe with glace of blanc rouge noir champs d’elysses dumpling grits, just out of the oven, is a house specialty and was almost too much to handle, especially when paired with the recommended dessert wine, a Mussolini Prosciutto Stromboli from Food Lioni.
Oh, the food here is to die for. I would not expect my layperson readers to obtain the full enjoyment that my five-star discriminating palate experienced, and I know that not everyone can get the full meaning of the French words that describe these delicacies, but even inexperienced diners can rely on what I have to tell you here: it’s eye-poppin’, toe-tappin’, knee-slappin’ SOME GOOD UH-HUH! And that is really saying something, as my faithful readers will know that I generally frequent upscale restaurants such as McDonald’s Irish Pub, KFC Southern Cookin’ and Domino’s Italian Ristorante.
All that was left was to check the washroom. It was elegant and quite functional, but one of the other patrons had taken his collection of cologne in there and was guarding it, and he had also taken possession of the entire inventory of hand towels and before he agreed to allow me to use one of the towels, he made it quite obvious that he expected a financial contribution to be placed into his so-called “tip jar”. I took the towel (my hands were wet, after all) and reluctantly deposited thirty-seven cents. I declined the cologne (for which an additional payment was clearly expected), having slapped on plenty of Hai Karate before leaving the motel (as is my custom).
The service was wonderful, so I splurged and left an extra one-eighth per cent tip (for an unprecedented total of six and seven-eighths per cent, and by the way, Admin Hyatt, this explains the entry on my expense account that you questioned). I could not wait to get back to the motel and tell Muffkins.
So, to “The Left Wing of the Duck”, I give FOUR AND SIXTY-ONE SEVENTY-EIGHTHS STARS. My only disappointment was the washroom ripoff; most food critics, who do not use my patent-pending rating system that includes washroom quality, would rate this establishment as a five-star restaurant. Confidential to Cathy: I always dine anonymously, so that I do not get any special treatment as the Cary Politics food critic. Hence, it was only on my way out that I told Charles to tell Annette that Oliver had visited. As I got into my Skylark, I heard a female voice saying, “What?!? He’s the one Mother told me about! Don’t you remember the procedures we put in place at the staff meeting? You were supposed to ! He’s not staying here, is he? Someone check the guest book, STAT!” Things just continue to look up, don’t they?
The ratings explained:
FIVE STARS: The best, with very fancy doorknobs
FOUR STARS: Very good, colored chalk used on the specials board
THREE STARS: Pretty good, with two pay telephones, not just one
TWO STARS: Sort of good, but the chairs squeak
ONE STAR: Not too good, the hostess has tattoos
NO STARS: The hostess gets her tattoos in the kitchen
[i]Cary Politics food critic Oliver “Omnivore” Lard-Gourmand has been known to whip up his own French three-course meal in his own gourmet kitchen (this involves an onion, French dressing and a special technique for using a Veg-O-Matic; write for recipe). He and Muffkins have returned to Cary, where, as he says, “It’s nice to be back in my own inflatable mattress on the floor, even if it doesn’t have a massage feature”. He is still considering employment opportunities.
The Left Wing of a Duck
By Oliver “Omnivore” Lard-Gourmand, Cary Politics Food Critic
This is all hush-hush for the moment, but I have been contacted by a prospective new employer. That’s right, dear readers, I have been in discussions with none other than CPEditor, and we are in cutthroat negotiations over terms. The main point of contention at this time is debate about the comparative sizes of audiences; Admin Hyatt’s Web site reaches a fair number of leading Cary citizens, but CPEditor is making claims about a very wide circulation based on subscription base, but I wish to verify these claims for myself, and so I have been trying to get in touch with the publisher of Cary Politics News to get some numbers. But please, don’t tell Mr. Admin Hyatt about this, because if negotiations break down, the Admin is my only available meal ticket.
In any case, for this month’s review, I received an insider’s tip from Cathy in the form of a post on carypolitics.org. Apparently Ms. Cathy comes from a family of restaurateurs, because she was boasting that her daughter was a deputy administrator of The Duck’s Left Wing restaurant, and so I made this my quest for review this month.
The complications began when I realized that this establishment was not in Cary. Indeed, it was far enough away that it would require me to sojourn overnight, and Admin Hyatt is notoriously tight about incurring extra expenses associated with my five-star reviews (this is surprising, because I would assume that my loyal base of readers would be sufficient for the Admin to generate significant advertising revenue if he would just get serious with the folks at Ronco and Purina. Indeed, this unwillingness to fork over a few smackers to get the quality of reviews I provide is one reason that I have chosen to commence discussions with CPEditor. But I digress).
In any case, I caught Admin Hyatt in a good mood and he agreed to cover my accommodations so that I could review this very special restaurant (things were looking up!), although he insisted that I pay for my own gasoline. So, I set off to find the Duck (it turns out to be to the east, and if you aren’t careful, you can get very wet getting there). Now, let’s get to the heart of the review:
Driving east in my ’83 Skylark from Cary, North Carolina, I finally spot a sign directing me toward the Duck. Exiting the car with my darling cat, Muffkins, I spy the long white limo that the Sandbergs often sends to ferry guests from the hotel to the Left Wing of the Duck. Alas, I am not staying with the Sandbergs; Admin Hyatt has agreed only to put me up in the Motel 4-˝ (the Motel 6 was out of his price range, he says), where I am under strict instructions not to make long-distance calls or watch any pay television. So Muffkins and I get back in the Buick and head to our accommodations.
As we drive into the parking lot of the Motel 4-˝, we see a fleet of Harleys and a Yugo. The Motel 4-˝’s buildings, covered in off-white pre-fab stucco-like material, have a vulgar, shabby-shabby look and verandas furnished with ample gentlemen in black leather and doo-rags, some of whom are engaged in very rapidly emptying bottles of beer. Some other gentlemen are engaged in some sort of transaction that they apparently wish to keep private, and a young lady is discussing the possibilities of a date with several of the gentlemen who are milling about. I gave my usual friendly wave to this crowd, who would be my temporary new neighbors, although I would not categorize the gestures I received in return as terribly friendly. Opening the door to my suite, I carried Muffkins into the room and, as is our custom when we travel, immediately set up her litter box. Once I flipped on the light switch, we found a light-filled space done in dust tones. There’s a huge cockroach in the bathroom and I’ve already told you about the veranda. The bed has a massage feature (5 minutes for a quarter), but I quickly learn that Muffkins does not fancy this one bit. But, unless I am to become a motel reviewer, which isn’t a half-bad idea, I digress.
After unpacking and some quick first aid to the cat scratches on my arms, I set out for the Left Wing of the Duck, the Sandbergs’ Sound restaurant, a tureen, elephant space with floors and ceilings and stunning views of some flagships. My host, Charles, explains that this establishment has a prix fixe menu, which is French for “we decide what to serve, and you have to pay the same whether or not you like the food”. He explains that I can order either the 3-course or 5-course meal; based on my allowance from Admin Hyatt, I choose the 3-course dinner and then advise Charles, with a smirk and a twinkle in my eye, that “I’ll have the Duck, thank you”. Charles rolls his eyes and mutters, “Like I’ve never heard THAT one before!” Things were looking up!
Chefs Georgia, Robin and her son sent out a delightful bouquet of a meat of some sort topped with a beet and parsnip faux gelatinous epee, which wine generalissimo Summer Hairnet paired with a Braunschweiger Fraulein Volkswagen from Pepsi-Cola. With each course, I enjoy a contrast of a food described in French-sounding terms with a beverage that sounds vaguely German or Italian. The main course featured the complex fishy taste of fresh-caught savoir-faire with red crumpets au lait, and a fondue kale debutante on the side. The heavenly dessert, an arc d’triomphe with glace of blanc rouge noir champs d’elysses dumpling grits, just out of the oven, is a house specialty and was almost too much to handle, especially when paired with the recommended dessert wine, a Mussolini Prosciutto Stromboli from Food Lioni.
Oh, the food here is to die for. I would not expect my layperson readers to obtain the full enjoyment that my five-star discriminating palate experienced, and I know that not everyone can get the full meaning of the French words that describe these delicacies, but even inexperienced diners can rely on what I have to tell you here: it’s eye-poppin’, toe-tappin’, knee-slappin’ SOME GOOD UH-HUH! And that is really saying something, as my faithful readers will know that I generally frequent upscale restaurants such as McDonald’s Irish Pub, KFC Southern Cookin’ and Domino’s Italian Ristorante.
All that was left was to check the washroom. It was elegant and quite functional, but one of the other patrons had taken his collection of cologne in there and was guarding it, and he had also taken possession of the entire inventory of hand towels and before he agreed to allow me to use one of the towels, he made it quite obvious that he expected a financial contribution to be placed into his so-called “tip jar”. I took the towel (my hands were wet, after all) and reluctantly deposited thirty-seven cents. I declined the cologne (for which an additional payment was clearly expected), having slapped on plenty of Hai Karate before leaving the motel (as is my custom).
The service was wonderful, so I splurged and left an extra one-eighth per cent tip (for an unprecedented total of six and seven-eighths per cent, and by the way, Admin Hyatt, this explains the entry on my expense account that you questioned). I could not wait to get back to the motel and tell Muffkins.
So, to “The Left Wing of the Duck”, I give FOUR AND SIXTY-ONE SEVENTY-EIGHTHS STARS. My only disappointment was the washroom ripoff; most food critics, who do not use my patent-pending rating system that includes washroom quality, would rate this establishment as a five-star restaurant. Confidential to Cathy: I always dine anonymously, so that I do not get any special treatment as the Cary Politics food critic. Hence, it was only on my way out that I told Charles to tell Annette that Oliver had visited. As I got into my Skylark, I heard a female voice saying, “What?!? He’s the one Mother told me about! Don’t you remember the procedures we put in place at the staff meeting? You were supposed to ! He’s not staying here, is he? Someone check the guest book, STAT!” Things just continue to look up, don’t they?
The ratings explained:
FIVE STARS: The best, with very fancy doorknobs
FOUR STARS: Very good, colored chalk used on the specials board
THREE STARS: Pretty good, with two pay telephones, not just one
TWO STARS: Sort of good, but the chairs squeak
ONE STAR: Not too good, the hostess has tattoos
NO STARS: The hostess gets her tattoos in the kitchen
[i]Cary Politics food critic Oliver “Omnivore” Lard-Gourmand has been known to whip up his own French three-course meal in his own gourmet kitchen (this involves an onion, French dressing and a special technique for using a Veg-O-Matic; write for recipe). He and Muffkins have returned to Cary, where, as he says, “It’s nice to be back in my own inflatable mattress on the floor, even if it doesn’t have a massage feature”. He is still considering employment opportunities.