The Patty Melt Chronicles: Perkins

Friends, I've been down with a sickness.

Ill and lethargic, I abstained from alcohol and patty melts for two days (TWO WHOLE DAYS!) and needed to rejuvenate my supply of piss and vinegar. While beer is generally not a good thing to imbibe during under-the-weather periods, the greasy goodness of a patty melt makes for comfort. Naturally, it would follow that a evening spent sitting at a Formica table at a cheap, greasy spoon-like restaurant would offer the best hope for a cure-all meal of beef and onions and cheese.

In a previous post, I ranted about the horror that was the patty melt at Mickey's Diner. In that post, I made the rather audacious claim that Culver's offers a superior product. This is true. However, today I present something different. I felt that I needed to establish an absolute mean in terms of quality, so I decided to head to the local Perkins, a chain that is the very definition of mediocre.


The interior of this Perkins was... well, just like every other fucking Perkins I've been to: tan wall paper, green carpeting, egg odor in the air, freeze-your-bits-off cold bathrooms, etc. I'm always curious as to why the bathrooms are so cold. Does the district manager decide these things? Is it a corporate matter? What? What could possibly be the benefit? Does seeing your breath aid in comforting you when you have explosive diarrhea from following up a night of Jag Bombs with a Denver Omelet and French Toast? Please, someone, give me an answer.

ANYWAY.

The patty melt came after a rather long wait. Another question I've always had is why all-night places like Perkins employ only one waiter between the hours of 11pm-4am. Sure, there is a manager (and obviously a cook) on duty, but all he does is bus tables and pick his nose at the register- a piece of technology he can't ever seem to master. But I digress.


Aww. It even came on a blue plate! Blue plate special! Wow, those Perkins people sure are clever. But I shouldn't talk. By the time the patty melt arrived, I was ready to eat the goddamn curtains.

Note the disheveled look I have. This is a result of no sleep and the Guatemalan hurky-jerky virus that I seem to have contracted. Don't let the beard scare you ladies, it's only there because of a bet I lost. Don't Ask.

Despite my noticeable trepidation, the patty melt was actually pretty damn decent. The beef patty was thick, though not terribly flavorful. The marble rye bread was surprisingly good- it soaked up the perfect amount of grease and was suitably crisp yet soft. American cheese was, well, american fucking cheese, but the onions made up for it. They were grilled perfectly and gave the sandwich the appropriate amount of falvor without being overbearing and turning the patty melt into the world's biggest and most expensive White Castle slider.

As for sides, I stuck with the usual Coca-cola and french fry accompaniment. Fortunatly for me, this cook at this particular Perkins was dilligent enough to have changed the fryer grease sometime within the last geological epoch, thus ensuring that I wouldn't have to brave the meat locker chill of said establishment's restroom in order to yak up by dinner.

Christ, did I just give a passing review to a fucking Perkins?
~~~

Clubby the Seal will answer questions this Sunday kiddies, so put your thinking caps on and come up with some good ones. In the meantime, guzzle a beer in a shower and contemplate the last days of summer.

I know I will.