The worst restaurant in possibly the whole, wide world is in Ruch, Oregon. They opened recently and a friend and I tried them. I won’t name names, as my friend and I are too ashamed to admit we dined there. Feeling a bit peckish; we pulled into a building that proclaimed “New Restaurant! Grand Opening!” The building also served as a post office and orchid store. Yes, they sold orchids. Believe me, when offered a choice between the menu of ‘the restaurant’ or the orchids, choose wisely and order the rotted bark the orchids are potted in. It will be a much more pleasant repast.
When my friend and I entered the establishment, there was no one to greet us. So we contented ourselves with petting the orchids until a gentleman in his eighties greeted us. He seemed rather frantic. Or to say, as frantic as a gentleman in his eighties can be. “Are you here for lunch?” he croaked. “Yes, we are. It’s 12:30 and we assumed you were open. Since you had your OPEN sign on and all…”
He assured us that they were indeed, OPEN; but they were ‘just getting started on things.’ How odd, the hours listed on door stated “OPEN: 11:00am to 8:00pm”. I can only assume that patrons arriving before 12:30pm were told not to pay any attention to the little man behind the curtain…
He told us to seat ourselves, which we did. 20 minutes later, the elderly gent came by to ask if we wanted anything to drink. Did I mention that we were the ONLY customers in the restaurant? I timidly asked for coffee, my friend requested iced tea. Our geriatric server gasped “COFFEE!! I made some yesterday, maybe the girl in the kitchen can show me how to make it!” I assured him that a Coke would be fine. Seems they only serve Pepsi. Whatever.
At this point, he handed us some greasy paper menus. As this was supposed to be the “Grand Opening”, I wondered where the grease came from. Let it go, truthbot. Give the man a chance. I asked him what the soup of the day was. He looked flustered and said he’d go check. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back five minutes later. “She’s still cooking the soup, and she’s not sure what it will be. It might be clam chowder, or cream of potato.” I hope the clams win in their bid for freedom; I chose the meatball sub. My friend orders the linguine with clam sauce (she has no deal with the clams, she poo-poos my protests.)
The meatball sub was as advertised. One huge freakin’ meatball in a stale roll. My friend fared a bit better with her pasta dish, it was ‘only slightly gritty’. Sleep with the clams, wake up with sand, I tell her.
We tipped the old fella ten bucks because we felt it would go towards his retirement or oxygen purchases. A lesson learned for the two of us, for less than thirty bucks. Such is life.