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Now I know that this post will only apply to those of you find yourselves in the Dallas area, but if I can help just one bro from getting violent, unrelenting diarrhea, it will make it all worth it.
Short backstory: My lady and I were in Dallas, Texas on Monday night for an overnight layover from Costa Rica. We hadn’t eaten since the morning and we were starving. Our hotel had a bunch of restaurant brochures at the front desk, so I blindly picked one: ‘Michael’s Grill.’ It turned out to be one of my worst decisions in a life peppered with poor decisions.
I’m not a big online reviewer guy because I have friends. This was my first. For those Dallas bros reading this, you either already know or you’ve been warned. For those who this doesn’t apply to, just enjoy taking pleasure in another man’s misery.
1.5 stars. Try harder.
Yelp
My review: 1 Star.
MUST READ: I have never written a restaurant review in my life but this place was so atrociously disgusting, I feel like it’s my civic duty.
Where do I start. I called for takeout and the lady on the other end sounded like I was asking for her vital organs. She treated me like a telemarketer calling during Thanksgiving dinner. I’d be lying if I told you it didn’t affect my self esteem. I ordered a steak tip sub for myself (because I’m manly AF), chicken fettuccini for my lady (because I’m romantic AF), and two bottled waters (because tap water is for poor people). The devil woman on the other end told me the total was $35 which included paying the driver or something?? Smelled fishy, but I wasn’t going to talk back to the lady in fear she would call me stupid or eat my soul. I hung up the phone, weeped silently in the bathroom, and waited.
And waited. And waited. We could have finished the entire Lord of the Rings Trilogy before this goddamn food showed up.
Finally we heard a knock at the door, and it felt like FEMA was knocking after Hurricane Katrina. I dug deep and limped my emaciated body to the door. I mustered the strength to open the door to find a woman who was far too enthusiastic for my mood. I gave her my credit card and instead of sliding it through a machine, she took out a piece of paper, put my card under it, and traced it until the numbers appeared on the paper. Astonished by the antiquated technique, I asked her if she parked her horse and buggy out front. She didn’t get it. Of course she didn’t. After her little art project, she left, and we were home free. Or so I thought.
I opened the soggy bag and pulled out two generic brand bottles of water. Not a solid start. I then pulled out the two boxes of food, which looked like they had taken a bubble bath in grease. Grease is delicious, so, whatever. I took a large bite of my wet steak tip sub and immediately realized what I was eating was not steak. Not even close. I’m not speaking in hyperbole when I say that it tasted like I was eating Prince Fielder’s baseball glove during an August day game. It was tough, gamey, hastily seasoned. Just repulsive.
I looked over at my lady who twirling her fettuccini and staring at the TV as if she was watching Two Girls, One Cup for the first time. The TV was off. I asked her if I could try a bite, because I’m a glutton for punishment. “No,” she quickly replied. “Why not?” I said. To which she replied, “Because I love you.”
She eventually succumbed to my request and handed the fork over, giving me the same look she gives me when she hands me the keys for Guys Night. I made myself a bite, getting a sufficient amount of pasta with a couple chunks of chicken. If I were to describe the taste, I would say that it could be aptly compared to Olive Garden’s fettuccini Alfredo, if Olive Garden’s fettuccini Alfredo had been shit in by a line cook and left in Steven Avery’s fridge. The chicken was chewy, smelly, and over seasoned. The Alfredo sauce tasted like someone rung out Vince Wilfork’s playing socks. Sickening.
Needless to say, we both threw out most of our meals, but it didn’t save me from the violent diarrhea that torched my butthole the morning after. At the risk of giving TMI, my poop was jet black. The toilet paper literally looked like a Pep Boys motor oil rag. And my girlfriend was a bit more dainty about it, but I knew. Oh I knew. She took one of those showers where she turns the water on to trick you into thinking she’s shaving her legs, but she’s really purging out her small intestine. She literally took a shower longer than Tom Hanks after he was rescued in Cast Away. That poor fucking toilet.
Now I know you don’t know me and have no reason to believe I’m telling the truth, but trust that I am simply a Good Samaritan whose mission it has become to warn his fellow Americans of the dangers of eating Michael’s Grill.
Your butthole will forever be indebted to me.
Best,
Anonymous (Matt)
Just so you bros don’t think I’m a picky whiner. I’m in good company.
Michaels
Now if you’ll excuse me, I got some business with my toilet to take care of. That poor bastard has taken a beating akin to a redheaded stepchild with braces.