Joe’s Grill

Ah, Joe’s. Let me begin by saying that if Joe’s was a geyser, it’d be old faithful, blowing it’s hot sticky load into appreciative stomachs with clock-like regularity. Alas, it is true, Joe’s does not lie at the intersection of ubercool or innovation avenues. Sure it lacks the kitsch and pop-memorabilia pastiche of other places and maybe the waiters don’t threaten to spit in your food. Let me say that in my experience those qualities are worth a one-off; sooner or later they get old and you just want your food not to suck. I mean, do you go to breakfast to eat the decor or drink the attitude? No, you go for breakfast to park your ass and bring your buddy up to speed about the status of your std’s, and hopefully, not wait too long before filling your prodigious gut with hot fuckin’ carbs. And no, Joe’s menu is not more versatile than a non-hard boner, and o.k., it’s a little greasy. Maybe there’s a bit of a wait weekend mornings but find a place that doesn’t have one. Despite these peccadilloes the only thing Joe’s is truly guilty of is great taste. Joe’s is like that comfy pair of bvd’s that might not get you a Manpower audition but damn they feel good. Joe’s doesn’t try to charge you extra for anything “value added.” I’ll settle for the warm but plain, cosy interior… they can keep their cliched pop art off the walls and I’ll keep my dollar. Like the Betty of restaurants, Joe’s might not be the girlfriend you take to Paris, but it’s the one you come home to to cook you chicken soup and feed you baby aspirin after you chip a tooth trying to impress your friends by biting the beaver off a nickel.