By Kaitlin Steinberg
By Minh T Truong
By Molly Dunn
By Brooke Viggiano
By Kaitlin Steinberg
By Molly Dunn
By Molly Dunn
By Eating Our Words
If you are dissatisfied with your server, feel free to tell her or him. If your food is not right, tell the cook. If you think we have poor management, let us know...Otherwise, sit back and enjoy the drama and theatrics of our entertaining staff. However, if you don't like our eclectic décor, close your eyes, click your heels together and say, "There's no place like home!"
Montrose Dinergreets you with this not-so-subtle note to "piss off" in bold print on the upper right-hand side of its menu. Coupled with this declaration, a tiny white board beside the host stand notifies us that burgers, when prepared correctly, take 15 to 20 minutes. These two statements are windows into the sad soul of the Montrose Diner experience. Put briefly, you willcomplain, and you willhave to wait...a very long time.
When the sign for Montrose Diner went up, I couldn't help but dance a little jig inside my head. Montrose Diner -- open 24 hours. Finally, someone was doing it! A slop shop that never closes, slinging eggs and hash browns in the heart of the Montrose. "Why," I wondered, "hadn't someone thought of this before?"
Chili cheeseburger: $6.75
Chicken-fried steak: $7.95
T-bone with eggs: $9.95
After all, it's quite the no-brainer. When it comes to all-night eats, one rule applies: If you dish it out, the drunken droves will come. Once the bars empty, tanked patrons stumble merrily into the night in search of sustenance. Almost anything will do: the mystery meat served in a Jack in the Box taco, the ever-so-oily cheese enchiladas at Taco Cabana...Folks with slurred speech aren't the most finicky of eaters. And as anyone who's spent time in the after-hours bustle of Montrose can attest, there are plenty of boozed boobs there from which to extract a food buck.
Sadly, it's as though the owners of Montrose Diner know this all too well. In fact, they're banking on it. The bar they've set for themselves is so low, they're stubbing their toes. The service is shoddy, the food is abysmal, and the interior -- steel appointments from the previous tenant, Cabo, meets Montrose wacky -- is unimpressive.
Those with short attention spans need read no further. This is all one really needs to know about the joint. Those with a penchant for pain may continue reading for the sobering blow-by-blow.
During a lunchtime visit, the diner is empty. We start with a "Montrose mix," a basket of every fried app the Sysco rep could sell them: fried cheese, jalapeño poppers and buffalo wings, along with onion rings and fries.
We order starters and entrées at the same time. I'm giving breakfast food a go: waffles and hash browns. My lady opts for cornmeal-coated catfish with two sides: green beans and mac 'n' cheese, naturally. Our friend, once a sous-chef under Monica Pope, decides he has 20 minutes to spare and orders a chili cheeseburger.
It arrives before the Montrose mix.
"Must not be cooked properly," I surmise.
After a few dry bites (he has the chili on the side), our fried crap basket is delivered. We're impressed that one of the sticks of fried cheese has no trace of cheese inside its crisp coating. We search it for holes and wonder how it could've slithered, Houdini-like, from its breaded straitjacket.
As Friend spoons chili onto his patty of shoe leather, the other entrées arrive. We're still examining the hollow cheese stick when another culinary curiosity makes its way to our table of non-delights.
Beside the catfish and green beans sits a hunk of mac 'n' cheese cooked to such a lifeless and wilted mush that it completely, totally, literally and unquestionably looks like scrambled egg yolks. On top of that, it's cold. Fortunately, the catfish it accompanies is delicious -- incredibly crunchy without being dry. The green beans, straight out of the can, are tepid too, not to mention overseasoned and overdone. The Jolly Green Giant's fingernail clippings would be more appetizing.
I turn out to be the big winner. My waffle, drowning in syrup and butter, tastes great. I don't get off scot-free, however. My hash browns are overdone in spots, underdone in others. I mix the hard, dark brown edges with the greasy, half-raw center in an attempt to balance textures. Half a bottle of Heinz helps, but a search for more woefully cooked potatoes would be a tall order for even the most ardent of explorers.
We finish our meals and sit...and sit...and sit. Finally our bill arrives. We wait...and wait...and wait. We could've had three or four properly cooked hamburgers in the time we spend staring at one another blankly in the empty room.
Maybe lunch is a lark. Montrose Diner, one assumes, is built for the after-hours crowd. Perhaps it doesn't really gear up until the a.m. It's with this thought in mind that I pay a second visit. "Surely it's got to be better at night," I think to myself on the way.
But I'm wrong.
Not surprisingly, after hours finds the place brimming with inebriated Montrose half-crazies. Surprisingly, the menu is cut in half. From 11 p.m. to 6 a.m., it turns out, you can't order omelettes, pancakes, buttery waffles or that tasty fried catfish. This is because, our waiter informs us, the diner doesn't staff as many cooks during the night shift. Bloggers, feel free to insert your WTF here.