When I sit down to a dinner service, the hope is that all my expectations of grandeur and sophistication will be met. When I found out Meat Loaf owned the hottest new restaurant in town, my expectations went through the roof. One of the truly great poperatic singers* of our time was a restaurateur. I’d be hard-pressed to believe that this culmination of majesty and sustenance would fail.
*A combination of pop and operatic.
I understand the allure of immersing a restaurant in darkness and cobwebs, but it was extremely difficult to read the menu by candelabra light. I asked my server to suggest something, but Meat Loaf had expressly forbidden his servers from trying the food. “You’ve never sneaked a bite?” I questioned, to which my server replied, “The last guy that tasted something got stabbed in the face and Meat Loaf left his rotting corpse in the kitchen as a warning.”
This was all very unsettling. Despite the wildly offensive health code violation, I still wanted to try something. Since I could not procure a recommendation, and I couldn’t read the menu, I decided to play it safe and ordered the meatloaf. The meatloaf would have to be great, right? My waiter told me they didn’t serve meatloaf.
This was all getting to be a bit much. I demanded to see the manager.
Moments later, Meat Loaf was table-side, screaming about some “pukey little snot” wasting his “god-damn time.”
Holy dashboard light! Meat Loaf was here, standing right next to me! He was so much fatter than I had imagined. Despite his extremely loose-fitting pirate shirt, I could still see the silhouette of his lumpy body thanks to all the candle-lit chandeliers and suit-of-armor statues holding torches. I was quiet for several moments, taking in the majesty that was Meat Loaf. It was awe-inspiring. I was shaken back into reality with what was affectionately referred to as the “Meatloaf Special.”*
*Meat Loaf farted.
“Can you make this quick, you putrid wretch of a thing? I have a plate of meatballs that needs attending, and frankly, the mere sight of you is quashing my appetite.” Meat Loaf’s words threw me. Firstly, he was speaking in a British accent, and I was pretty positive he was American. Secondly, it is rare you have a restaurateur speak to a patron in such a manner, especially when said patron has a tote bag that clearly reads, “Restaurant Reviews are my Bag, Baby!”* At any rate, I again asked to try the meatloaf.
“We don’t have meatloaf!,” Meat Loaf wildly screamed. He stared me down for a few moments, sizing me up as it were. Since I had him here, I questioned him about the name of his restaurant. If it was a play on his name, shouldn’t there be another apostrophe? If it was a play on loaves of bread and/or meat, was it spelled incorrectly? Also, they didn’t even have loaves of meat. It was rather confusing.
Meat Loaf’s eyes went barren and he disappeared into the kitchen. I summoned our server back. I explained we had not yet ordered, to which he replied, “Meat Loaf has deemed you unworthy of placing your own orders. Your meal will now be chosen for you.”
After some time had passed—no real way of telling how long as the only clocks were programed to run backwards and we were shrouded in darkness—our dinner was set in front of us. Elegant silver platters covered with extravagant silver lids were placed down. The woman to my left opened hers first: a signed CD from Meat Loaf! Hmm. That seemed peculiar, especially since meatloaf wasn’t even on the menu! Ha-ha, no I’m kidding, she was pretty upset there was no food.
The man to my right opened his lid to find a small handwritten note that simply read, “Fuck You.” While the note itself was in poor taste, the calligraphy that adorned it was stunning. If that much effort could be placed into such a note, why couldn’t the same exertion be spent on the restaurant’s service and food? I was quickly growing weary of what would be under my lid.
I opened my lid to find Meat Loaf’s head. Please don’t misunderstand; it wasn’t a disgusting severed head, but rather, Meat Loaf had jimmied his way underneath our table, and stuck his head under my lid. He pretended he was dead, but getting under our table must have been quite taxing as he was breathing very heavily and was clearly not dead. After a few awkward moments he screamed out, “Hope you like your meatloaf rare!” and began laughing maniacally. As quickly as he started laughing he stopped and an overhead spotlight shone down on him. Confused, my fellow diners looked around, and as “Bat Out of Hell” started playing, we realized Meat Loaf was going to sing!
Unfortunately, he did not sing. He started humming, clearly having forgotten the words. I started to sing, to help him out, and he absolutely lost it. He was so enraged that he flipped our table. We were asked to exit. I tried to tell the staff that I was here doing a review of the restaurant, but that seemed to make everyone angrier.
As we exited, Meat Loaf screamed out, “If your review is anything less than sparkling, I will find you, and I will kill you.” With that, he slammed the front door and left the three of us out in the street. This didn’t scare me. My pen was mightier than his sword.
9 out of 10 stars. I suggest everyone experience the wonder that is, ‘Loafs.
