The canned music that normally blasts from the speakers at Twin Peaks, 3109 W. Memorial Rd., specializes in the best cock-rock of recent years, featuring dick-slinging hits from the likes of Lenny Kravitz, Buckcherry and Lit; however, when I walked in, it forebodingly began playing “How Soon is Now” by the Smiths, as if to signal to the wait-staff that a beta-male was sighted in the area.
The most erotic eatery ever to be named after the quixotic art of David Lynch—until, at least, I get Eraserheadz off the ground—Twin Peaks has a somewhat rustic mountain-man theme to it, filled with stuffed beasts and, more importantly, stuffed breasts; they’re then tucked into flannels shirts and tied tightly so that the lunching oil-men, small-time politicians and assorted Lifechurchers will have a nice view and, justifiably, leave a nice tip.