Ms. Tootsie's Restaurant Bar Lounge
Had we been forced to procure roast chicken with our pommes puree at Parc, we have decided that we would have brought it to Ms. Tootsie's, where we are supposed to eat Robert Irvine's favorite FRIED CHICKEN, to have them fry it for us.
|BYOC: Bring Your Own Chicken|
|Even If This Chicken Is the Protagonist of Ginger's Latest Reading Venture|
It appears that somewhere along the line, Ms. Tootsie's name changed to the punctuation-deprived "Ms. Tootsie's Restaurant Bar Lounge" (apparently, Ms. Tootsie does not believe in commas). Outside the front door, a large crowd of potential diners as already assembled, and the hostess manages to be flustered yet completely lackadaisical in the face of the mess before her. When we hear that the wait for a table will be an hour an a half (at 5:30pm!), we inquire about their take-out option. The hostess sends us to the bar to order, and we encounter the complete opposite of a "soul food cafe" for the first time.
Ms. Tootsie's features dark, moody lighting, white leather couches, and pounding music that does not remotely match the music videos being played on the flat-screen televisions (this disparity bothers Ginger so much during our wait that she keeps downloading samples of the music video songs on her phone so she can hear what they sound like). Maneuvering our way to the bar, we manage to place our order for one thigh and two drumsticks with the very pleasant bartender. He tells us our order should be ready in 15 minutes.
35 minutes later, and after ample consultation, our order finally appears.
|Wow, Those Leafy Greens Look... "Impressive"|
The whole scenario, for lack of a more descriptive term, is a "hot mess."
Literally, hot. Besides the lighting, the noise, and the lack of urgency, the place is toasty, and the whole thing is making Ginger feel increasingly ill ("I don't think you understand how much bread I ate at Parc. I had a slice of the French bread, a slice of the wheat bread, and three slices of the nut bread. I can't handle this").
|Ginger's Bread Basket of Binge|
Now, however, we are left with the conundrum that we are virtually homeless -- where are we going to eat our chicken?! Then, as if sent as a beacon from the southern fried gods, the lights of Whole Foods appear before us. We enter, buy beverages so that we'll look less like interlopers in their dining section, and dig in.
The chicken is fine.
|And Not Nearly As Impressive as Our Ability to Trespass|
If we do absolutely nothing, the dish is 3 stars. It is nothing more than adequate. And so goes the fate of Ms. Tootsie's chicken.
|Welcome to the Middle Class, Ms. Tootsie's|
|I Played My Drumstick for Him, Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum|
|Colonel Sanders Would Not Be Impressed|
Ms. Tootsie's Restaurant Bar Lounge's Southern Fried Chicken: 3 stars