Eight years ago, when I was a teenager, my parents decided that this would be a good place to eat after one of my piano competitions, partially because it was late and most other places were closed, and partially because they figured that any restaurant named after an animal would be good. With my suit-clad piano teacher in tow, my parents and I sat down to a soda, burger, and chicken wing feast. We ate like noble savages, gravely digging into the food with our bare hands then gingerly sucking the grease from our fingers. Some of us ordered second servings. I think I had a milkshake, too. We stayed there for a long time, encouraged by the boisterous atmosphere and the cheerful waitresses. In keeping with his Chinese mentality, my dad asked a waitress to photographically commemorate the occasion. Nowadays, if you look in my family’s picture album, you’ll find a snapshot of me, my parents, and my piano teacher, all in formal wear, surrounded by a gaggle of young women in tight white shirts and orange booty shorts.
I don’t think my parents thought that there was anything strange about the situation, now that I think of it. My mom seems to have forgotten about the incident, and my dad, if asked, would say something favorable about the chicken wings. And to this day, I don’t know if my middle-aged, white American piano teacher had any idea what he was in for. If so, he never let on.
So. I highly recommend this place if you have a heterosexual male mentality and are looking for cheap food and enthusiastic waitresses during the late hours.
