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Comment Archives: Locations: Restaurants: Bakery: 2 Stars

Re: “Bruegger's Bagel Bakery

kind of

Posted by john lang on 08/29/2010 at 9:51 PM

Re: “Frothy Monkey

Most of the food was mediocre at best.I did see the GFS truck out back.The food was getting really fine then all of a sudden the muffins were life OTIS SPUNKMEYER'S.What a shame .I thought I had found a place like I was used to in the midwest with honest baking and ingredients. Wont go back to a place gpoing backwards.
Rating Detail:
Food: 1
Service: 1
Atmosphere: 1
Value: 1
Overall: 2

Posted by peggy on 11/05/2009 at 1:45 PM

Re: “Pfunky Griddle

The Pfunky Griddle is set in a house, and has the sort of quaint ambience that makes you want to like it; attractive, in spite of the jungle mural motif painted on walls that look to have once been the bedrooms of a few 5 and 6 year old children. I am seated pretty quickly, and as I’m seated the hostess turns on a griddle at my table. Whoa. I didn’t know the Griddle in The Pfunky Griddle would be one at my own table. I looked around and noticed there was a large griddle in the middle of each table. The mother and daughter at the table next to me seemed to be enjoying their griddle. So I decided to go with it. I figured maybe it’d be something like an experience at The Melting Pot or a Japanese restaurant like Benihanas. It wasn’t. The waitress gives me a menu and explains to me when I tell her I’ve never been to The Pfunky Griddle “we provide you your batter and materials to make your own pancake, French toast, or eggs.” The wheels in my head start turning. I’m bummed—because I was in one of those rare moods to get pancakes, but I had no desire to cook them. I’m more an egg girl. But then she tells me I’ll have to make my own eggs, and there aren’t any omelets on the menu anyway. They do have potatoes, grits, and a few other sides that you don’t have to cook. I figured I would do less damage making French toast than pancakes (which, let’s be honest, are NOT easy to make which is why people go to a restaurant to get them!), and I can’t have breakfast without eggs so I ordered one egg. I wanted to eat at least one thing that I didn’t have to cook myself, so I ordered potatoes. The waitress disappears and arrives back with a plastic blue plate and a big black spatula--my utensils. She also has the smallest cup of coffee I’ve ever seen outside of a fun house. And I’ve actually never been to a fun house, so it was the smallest cup of coffee I’ve ever seen. As I’m waiting for my food to come out, I check out my table. My griddle is making me a little bit hot, and I notice the table has vegetable spray, salt, paper, and sugar. Soon, the waitress comes out. “here’s your egg.” She meant it quite literally. She presented me an egg, in its shell, nesting in a bowl. It was topped by another bowl. You haven’t been disappointed with what you ordered in a restaurant until a waitress comes out to you and says here’s your egg and quite literally gives you an egg. “And here’s your French toast.” She slides a bowl of some mixture and a plate of wheat bread on my table, and prepares to leave. “Sooo,” I say tentatively, “do I just spray this vegetable spray on the griddle?” “Oh!” she says, “I can do that for you!”. I’m thinking I’m the one who just left home to eat, I really would like them to cook the entire meal for me instead of just spraying my griddle. She sprays my griddle thoroughly, then turns to leave again. “So how long should I cook this?” I ask, pointing to my French toast. I’m a pretty good cook, but I can screw up members of the pancake, French toast, waffle family something terrible. “Oh, however long you want. The griddle’s pretty hot.” I’m the one sitting in front of the griddle, I know how hot it is. She leaves. Left alone, I start problem solving. Okay. I decide to make my egg first. I break the egg, use some of the milk that the waitress had brought for my coffee, and salt and pepper. I mix up the egg with my fork—that I’ll eventually be eating my food with. Then I change tasks and focus on my French toast. I dip my bread in the French toast mixture (which I assume is made of egg and cinnamon). Eventually, I’ve filled my griddle with bread dipped in the egg and cinnamon batter. I figure I may as well cook my lonely looking egg. My breakfast potatoes arrive, and it turns out they’re mashed. I’m slightly disappointed because I was kinda’ craving some hash browns. I’m starting to think these folks object to having to stand over a griddle or grill themselves. The waitress hasn’t picked up my mess yet—my leftover egg shell, my batter for my French toast, and all the plates I have left over. I put my egg on the griddle, and I will admit an egg does well to be spread out on a griddle. I eat my egg. It is tasty! This isn’t really surprising, however, because I make a tasty egg at home. My French toast is o-kay. It’s not great, but that’s not really my fault. I don’t think the batter is that great---which is actually pretty annoying since their one job is to make the batter. By this point, I’m just thinking this is a silly idea. Silly as daycares that spell kids K-I-D-Z or call themselves something like Kiddie Kollege. Misspelling words for a business advantage is silly, and this concept is silly. It’s as if the laziness of them not having to cook is just contagious, and gets into everything. The waitress doesn’t refill my coffee cup or bring me water. When I finally ask for more coffee, she brings me cold coffee. And my entire meal I stared at the refrigerator so I could see them storing the store-bought orange juice. One of my favorite words is trifling. It’s a word that captures a combination of laziness, thoughtlessness, and silliness. It’s one of the world’s best words in my opinion, particularly because there are some things that are just such a bizarre combination of lazy, thoughtless, and silly that they just have to be described as trifling. And so is The Pfunky Griddle. I think the concept in some ways could have potential. But I don't think it's there yet. Perhaps they should let Parliament keep the P-funk.. P.S. All this being said, if you have a kid I could see how this could be a good time.
Rating Detail:
Food: 2
Service: 2
Atmosphere: 2
Value: 2
Overall: 2

0 likes, 4 dislikes
Posted by Rea on 01/01/2009 at 8:36 PM

Re: “Pfunky Griddle

The Pfunky Griddle is set in a house, and has the sort of quaint ambience that makes you want to like it; attractive, in spite of the jungle mural motif painted on walls that look to have once been the bedrooms of a few 5 and 6 year old children. I am seated pretty quickly, and as I’m seated the hostess turns on a griddle at my table. Whoa. I didn’t know the Griddle in The Pfunky Griddle would be one at my own table. I looked around and noticed there was a large griddle in the middle of each table. The mother and daughter at the table next to me seemed to be enjoying their griddle. So I decided to go with it. I figured maybe it’d be something like an experience at The Melting Pot or a Japanese restaurant like Benihanas. It wasn’t. The waitress gives me a menu and explains to me when I tell her I’ve never been to The Pfunky Griddle “we provide you your batter and materials to make your own pancake, French toast, or eggs.” The wheels in my head start turning. I’m bummed—because I was in one of those rare moods to get pancakes, but I had no desire to cook them. I’m more an egg girl. But then she tells me I’ll have to make my own eggs, and there aren’t any omelets on the menu anyway. They do have potatoes, grits, and a few other sides that you don’t have to cook. I figured I would do less damage making French toast than pancakes (which, let’s be honest, are NOT easy to make which is why people go to a restaurant to get them!), and I can’t have breakfast without eggs so I ordered one egg. I wanted to eat at least one thing that I didn’t have to cook myself, so I ordered potatoes. The waitress disappears and arrives back with a plastic blue plate and a big black spatula and the smallest cup of coffee I’ve ever seen outside of a fun house. And I’ve actually never been to a fun house, so it was the smallest cup of coffee I’ve ever seen. Then the waitress goes back to her standing area. As I’m waiting for my food to come out, I check out my table. My griddle is making me a little bit hot, and I notice the table has vegetable spray, salt, paper, and sugar. Soon, the waitress comes out. “here’s your egg.” She meant it quite literally. She presented me an egg, in its shell, nesting in a bowl. It was topped by another bowl. You haven’t been disappointed with what you ordered in a restaurant until a waitress comes out to you and says here’s your egg and quite literally gives you an egg. “And here’s your French toast.” She slides a bowl of some mixture and a plate of wheat bread on my table, and prepares to leave. “Sooo,” I say tentatively, “do I just spray this vegetable spray on the griddle?” “Oh!” she says, “I can do that for you!”. I’m thinking I’m the one who just left home to eat, I really would like them to cook the entire meal for me instead of just spraying my griddle. She sprays my griddle thoroughly, then turns to leave again. “So how long should I cook this?” I ask, pointing to my French toast. I’m a pretty good cook, but I can screw up members of the pancake, French toast, waffle family something terrible. “Oh, however long you want. The griddle’s pretty hot.” I’m the one sitting in front of the griddle, I know how hot it is. She leaves. Left alone, I start problem solving. Okay. I decide to make my egg first. I break the egg, use some of the milk that the waitress had brought for my coffee, and salt and pepper. I mix up the egg with my fork—that I’ll eventually be eating my food with. Then I start dipping my bread in the French toast mixture made out of I assume egg and cinnamon. Eventually, I’ve filled my griddle with bread dipped in the egg and cinnamon batter. I figure I may as well cook my lonely looking egg. My breakfast potatoes arrive, and it turns out they’re mashed. I’m slightly disappointed because I was kinda’ craving some hash browns. I’m starting to think these folks object to having to stand over a griddle or grill themselves. The waitress hasn’t picked up my mess yet—my leftover egg shell, my batter for my French toast, and all the plates I have left over. I put my egg on the griddle, and I will admit an egg does well to be spread out on a griddle. I eat my egg. It is tasty! This isn’t really surprising, however, because I make a tasty egg at home. My French toast is o-kay. It’s not great, but that’s not really my fault. I don’t think the batter is that great---which is actually pretty annoying since their one job is to make the batter. By this point, I’m just thinking this is a silly idea. The Pfunky Griddle isn’t clever, it’s just silly. Silly as daycares that spell kids K-I-D-Z or call themselves something like Kiddie Kollege. Misspelling words for a business advantage is silly, and this concept is silly. It’s as if the laziness of them not having to cook is just contagious, and gets into everything. The waitress doesn’t refill my coffee cup or bring me water. When I finally ask for more coffee, she brings me cold coffee. One of my favorite words is ‘trifling’. It’s a word that captures a combination of laziness, thoughtlessness, and silliness. It’s one of the world’s best words in my opinion, particularly because there are some things that are just such a bizarre combination of lazy, thoughtless, and silly that they just have to be described as trifling. And so is The Pfunky Griddle. In my experience, this restaurant was as trifling as spelling funky with an unnecessary P. Perhaps they should let Parliament keep the P-funk. P.S. All this being said, if you have a kid I could see how this could be a good time.
Rating Detail:
Food: 2
Service: 2
Atmosphere: 3
Value: 2
Overall: 2

0 likes, 4 dislikes
Posted by Rea on 01/01/2009 at 3:35 PM

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