Wuddup dildos! I tell you what, man, we play some weird fuckin places every now and again. Case in point? Winston's Cafe in Chesapeake, VA. This little gem was located in a cookie cutter shopping center in one of the ugliest towns in America and was right next to a god damned APPLEBEE'S. This is what we see when we pull up:
Appetizers AND prime rib!? F me in the A place! So yeah, not really a place you would expect to see the next Pitchfork BNM play a set. But you know what you can expect from a joint like this? How underwhelming the food is! Smith and I were the only hungry ones (B-rock and Deaner couldn't wait to eat and dawged some Chik-fil-A on the way) and decided to split a couple of appz. Here they be:
Jalepeno poppers and seared tuna bites! As you can probably tell by the elegant presentation, the shit just wasn't very good. They get brownie points for hand-breading the poppers, and the tuna was actually seasoned quite well, but I mean shit man, how about SOME sort of garnish!? How bout a spinach leaf or some shit? And don't you dare throw some powdered sugar, paprika, and cayan pepper in some mayonaise and call it a fucking remoulade(although that is actually quite delicious). But whatevs, as far as bar food goes, they pass the test. The guy who was playing when we walked in also passes the test:
Stayed the night at some cool dude's clean apt. who was at the show. Watched that Minutemen documentary till about 4am, that band was fucking nuts. Let's talk pancakes.
When I was growing up, my dad was usually in charge of the pancake making for whatever inexplicable reason (my mom's pancakes kicked the living shit out of my dad's; she would throw in a shit of bacon pieces in the batter). And what my dad had going for him was that his pancakes were friggin yuuge, I think sometimes he would just experiment and see how big he could make them before they got fucked up. I would stay the night at friends' places and eat their moms' pancakes and could barely recognize wtf these fat-chick-nipple-size discs were. Fuck this little three stack shit, just gimme one big ass dude. I mean, they're called cakes for christ's sake, I'm pretty sure that implies some sort of substantial volume of nomness. I was pleased that the diner we went to shared the same sentiments. It's a little joint called the Do Nut Dinette:
They're known for their for their dognuts, which unfortunately they were out of that day, and usually everyday by nine am. But it was all good, because these jerks make pancakes as big as laser discs.
Jesus, pancake, stop freaking out, it's all over your belly. So not only are these fucking pancakes gigantic, but the cooks also make sure that the edges are nice and crispy, and before they plate it(you do notice the pancake is bigger than the plate, right?) they paint the bitch with melted butter. PERFECTION. Oh, then there's this fucking guy:
He didn't want me to take his picture becuase of something about getting his soul stolen or some shit, but I took it anyway. This dude is one of those happy-go-lucky always smiling and laughing for no apparent reason dudes. Like, the infectious kind of happy. Like, this dude probably goes home and gets off on pterodactyl porn kind of happy. Real sweet heart. Oh yeah, the bathroom to this joint is in a tiny ass alley -- here's T-Dean exiting said bathroom after throwing some yellow:
So yeah, this place is nothing short of amazing and you need to take your ass there next time you find yourself in the Norfolk area.