Skip to main content3:35 pm: I ate the Voodoo Doughnut Burger 30 minutes ago. It is still very much with me.
What you are about to read isn't fair. It's a gimmick, reviewing the Original in real-time gastric responses to its flashiest, least representative dish. But then the Voodoo Doughnut Burger ($7.95) is itself a gimmick: a squat patty of beef topped with melted cheddar, resting between two toasted halves of a glazed pastry. That's it. No condiments or roughage. You can add bacon if you want. It's exactly the sort of meta-gluttony designed to snare the eye of visiting New York Times style bloggers. (Success! See nytimes.com, June 30, 2009.) And for the first bite—the first five bites, actually—it's deceptively perfect: like a patty melt on toast, only the toast is dripping with sugar. Then you look down at your plate, notice the congealed glaze and fatty juices, and your body remembers it's digesting a hamburger on a doughnut.
3:47 pm: Still experiencing some choppy weather on the good ship Voodoo Doughnut Burger.
At this point, it actually feels unfair to review the Original at all. The Sage Hospitality eatery below the downtown Courtyard by Marriott has taken critical abuse from nearly every reviewer in town since it opened in May, to the point that having another go makes me feel like Ben Affleck in Dazed & Confused tormenting a freshman with a paddle. But then I think of the place's conceit—it's "a dinerant," a.k.a. a greasy spoon for beautiful people, complete with neon-aqua tabletops and lobster corn dogs ($12)—and the irritation returns afresh. The intent of the place is something like that of Jack Rabbit Slim's in Pulp Fiction, minus the costumed servers and with many more mirrors and cavalcades of hanging lamps. The effect? As my dining companion—oh, why be coy; it was Casey Jarman—observed, "It's like being served food in a Gap."
4:09 pm: Small, shooting pains at the front of my abdomen.
The servers (who sometimes do wear American Eagle shirts) are chipper and enthusiastic, though they consistently manage to be very busy elsewhere whenever you want to order or settle your tab. The food they serve has the cardinal virtue of being conceptually interesting. The beer-can chicken ($16.25)—marinated in suds, though sadly not served with the actual can—is tender and bland; the plate is most distinguished by its vegetable medley, which includes tangy eggplant cubes. An appetizer called "chicken ham fritters" ($6) is oddly captivating: five deep-fried balls of pulled, creamed chicken, with bright orange romesco for dipping. The Pure Joy cake ($8), a riff on the Almond Joy chocolate bar, has enough fudge and coconut to serve as refrigerated dessert for several days. The flat-iron steak ($19.25) may be the most reliable item on the menu. It comes with fries. The fries are a problem.
4:15 pm: I feel better, but I don't want to make any sudden lateral moves.
The fries accompany many of the dishes at the Original. They come alongside the Voodoo Doughnut Burger. They are served with gravy and cheese curds as poutine ($7.25). They are served in a paper bag that looks like it could hold peanuts at a baseball game. You would be better off eating the bag. The fries are terrible—so bad that if you told me they were taken from behind a Denny's at closing and thrown into the grease a second time, I would believe you.
4:21 pm: Thinking about bacon makes me feel dizzy. Also, I believe an oil tanker has run aground in my small intestine.
If it seems I'm going on unnecessarily about these fries, it's because they symbolize everything that's wrong about the Original. How can you spend this much time and money reworking a dining car and not bother to develop a decent french fry? The entire point of the place is that rich people can enjoy fatty junk, too—the average entree runs $15—and yet the core staples are no improvement on what you'd get at Applebee's. Deep in my gut, I can feel the revenge of the working classes.
- Order this: The beef stroganoff ($14.25) is nothing fancy, thank God.
- Best deal: $8 for a slice of Pure Joy cake sounds absurd, but it will last you a weekend.
- I’ll pass: Would you like to eat my fries?
The Original, 300 SW 6th Ave., 546-2666. Open 6 am-10 pm Monday-Thursday, 6 am-midnight Friday-Saturday, 6 am-9 pm Sunday. Breakfast menu available until 11 am Monday-Friday, until 1 pm Saturday-Sunday. $$ Moderate.
WWeek 2015