![]() Even less so over the past decade, when many suburbs, looked down upon for so long as cultural wastelands, have come to be recognized as some of the most exciting places to eat in America. I have never regretted that those oysters were my first taste of what would eventually become my home. I stepped off the plane and piloted my rental car not toward the narrow streets and Spanish balconies of the French Quarter, but to the strip-mall-and-chain-restaurant-lined blacktop of Veterans Memorial Boulevard. In it, I read a description of the charbroiled oysters at Drago’s, the seafood restaurant opened in Metairie by a Croatian immigrant named Drago Cvitanovich and his wife, Klara, in 1971: how fat Gulf oysters were set atop a blazing grill, basted with garlic butter, and then allowed to poach in the mingled fat, smoke, and brine beneath a bubbling crust of Parmesan and Romano. It was my first visit from New York, and I had done my research, which in those still-rudimentary-internet days meant having somebody mail me a physical copy of the Times-Picayune ’s annual restaurant guide. It was in Metairie, a suburb that lies between the New Orleans airport and the city itself. Opening Hours: seven days a week 11.30-‘late’.Īverage cost for one person including soft drinks: £40 approx.The first meal I ever ate in New Orleans was not in New Orleans at all. I’m going to hide under my comfort blanket and I’m not coming out until Spring.Īddress: 7-14 Coventry Street, Piccadilly Circus, London W1D 7DH And it is succeeding, judging by the packed tables from my two visits. ![]() It’s easy to blame the faceless multinational conglomerate behind Bubba Gump, but the truth is that London’s restaurant industry isn’t doing enough to welcome the timid and the unknowing – and promoting equally bad native chains such as Garfunkel’s or Angus Steak House doesn’t count – if Bubba Gump is succeeding. At best the food is passable, but at worst it’s simply terrible. An average cost of around £40 is an inexcusably high price to charge people who don’t know any better for such dreary food. When I had to go, you know, I went.īubba Gump isn’t just awful, it’s awfully cynical too. The gumbo tastes like peppered gravy dotted with scabs of tasteless fish and sausage as well as a lot of rice filler. Express any curiosity whatsoever into the themed fittings, and the staff will immediately put out that it’s for sale in the downstairs shop. The staff themselves are all suitably cherry, polite and efficient but if I wanted a pop quiz about Forrest Gump during dinner, I’d load Buzzfeed on my phone or attend a crap pub quiz. It’s therefore not the themed nature of Bubba Gump that I object to per se, but the crass elements that creep into the service. It’s an easy way to distract the kids and it’s the safe, predictable, reassuring choice if you’re a tourist genuinely intimidated by queues, tattooed and bearded hipster staff, having to book 27 years in advance, dim lighting, hard to navigate menus or any of the many other annoying London restaurant trends. It’s all desperately naff, but it’s not hard to see the attraction of a themed restaurant. ![]() I wasn’t hungry but thirsty, I must’ve drank me fifteen Dr.
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