Twin Peaks: The Breastaurant of Broken Dreams
2:10 PM EDT on October 3, 2019
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.
Walking into the place—past the welcoming row of parking stalls for veterans, God breast America—I almost feel like I’m having lunch at a strip-club with unequivocally high self-esteem; while I’ve never eaten at one of these “breastaurants” before, a wholly American munch-house that offers scantily clad women serving platefuls of wings with extra sauce and lustful attention as a selling point, I kind of figure the rules are the same: no touching, right?
Overhead, as Morrissey lamented the words “And you go home and you cry and you want to die…” I eventually stole a menu from the table next to me. I noticed that the Peaks served very little outdoor-styled grub, instead offering options like pork rinds, blackened haddock tacos and Mom’s Pot Roast which, sadly, was not an edible sexual innuendo like the mildly disturbing “Bottoms Up!” ketchup that sat on the table was.
Ordering the lunch special of a cup of Venison Chili and half a Cubano Sandwich, I peered around the room, moderately jealous of the Quail Springs familiars that filled the moderately busy noontime rush. Groups of men in O.U.-embroidered Polos guffawed loudly while slamming down their noon-time brews on the table. For a moment I felt like was in high school once again, my peers replaced with, of course, shapely lunch-ladies and popular middle-aged men.
Meanwhile, I could hear every grunt, every splash and every flush from my seat near the men’s room.
My food was eventually delivered unceremoniously, silently placed on the table as almost an afterthought. This was the third server / fifth and sixth breast, I’ve had at this cursed table since showing up, with none of the requisite coy flirting or shoulder-rubs that the manlier men around me were receiving. Maybe I’m too aloof, giving off an icy coolness that says, “I don’t tip.”
The venison chili was a hot bowl of mostly meat-flavored grease, armed with a taste like that of an overly simmered can of Hormel, cooked hobo-style over an open railyard fire. The Cubano Sandwich, meanwhile, was very much a toasted delight of flat-pressed ham, tangy pickles and spicy mustard that made for a tasty breakdown and a great lunchtime deal, despite my growing fear of what is sure to be a prolonged wait for my small check…and wait for the check I did, well after my glass of water was down a few melting ice cubes.
As I was leaving Twin Peaks and their mostly sonsy waitresses, not a one said thanks for coming in or even asked me to come back. The Smiths had long since disappeared too, replaced with a regionally familiar song about how hard it is to be faithful to your current woman when your ex has the “lips of an angel.”
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