Monday, 14 June 2010

Dave does Porky's

Ensconsed in Paynted Laydeez, a tremendous bar I discovered on my recent sojourn to Florida, I was being shown the sights by a fine and upstanding young lady called Kelly-Anne-Marie-Jo.

Those sights mainly consisted of bits of Kelly-Anne-Marie-Jo herself, and bits of her friends, Shaqueena, Lashonque, Gabriella De Souza Margerita Hernandes De Calderon De Margerita De Souza, Pati-Belle May, Scout-Mystery Lockhart and Missy Parabchakraporn.

These spunky young women made me feel welcome in at least 94 different ways. They even made sure I was well-fed by taking me to some of their favourite slop-houses, burger-dens and grill-sheds. One of them, Porky's Last Stand, I felt worthy of my second ever restaurant review. (I'll carry on in the style of my first. If ain't broke, don't fucking fix it, innit?)

Porky's Last Stand, Florida.

When I walked into Porky's Last Stand I had a healthy appetite, a spring in my step and around 40 dollars in cash. When I left, I could barely walk, I could barely see, I had torrential meat sweats, I had sick on my tie, there was a dull, throbbing pain in my dangle-bag and I had 32 dollars in cash.

But those aren't the only reasons I love this place. There are more.

It's not an easy place to love, mind. Some might see a salad cart ridden by a pig (pictured above) and assume that its creators have as much taste as a South African divorcee shopping in Trump Towers for a leopard-skin Hitler outfit. Indeed, generally speaking, the place looks like the set of Seven Brides For Seven Brothers staged in the Liberace Care Home for the Overtly Rococo.

But, really, does anyone actually give a fuck what a restaurant looks like? Personally, I'd eat dinner at a table in the middle of an especially ill-tempered gang-bang if they kept the claret 'n' Malibu coming.

We started with some 'buffalo wings', but if they were made of buffalo, I'm a fucking Dutch monkey's uncle. No matter - whatever they were, I ate them and then all the others they brought. And then the rest.

My companions were keen for me to try the sirloin, but I said, 'Fuck that - I want steak'. The piece of cow that came sizzling to the table was the size of a mattress and cooked just as requested: raw enough to taste of blood-bogeys.

By this time, I'd sampled most of their extensive wine list. They have red flavour wine, white flavour wine and also pink flavour wine, and it all goes very well with the scotch. And the brandy.

Now, at this stage, I did something of which I'm not especially proud. I fell under the table while attempting to goose a waitress, and got stuck. Then I panicked. Then, during the ensuing thrash, I had a fairly major digestive malfunction, mostly over the shoes, legs, ears, hair and neck of a very nice woman at the next table.

I raise this only to highlight the superb service of the staff at Porky's who, apart from some tears, threats and thinly-veiled revulsion, were superb. They didn't even complain when a couple of the girls consoled me in the gents (a little noisily - sorry!) or when I accidentally sat at the wrong table and spent 10 minutes whispering porn into the ear of a pumpkin farmer's wife.

We ended the evening with dessert, possibly, and coffee. Or not. I dunno. Who cares? By the time the meat part is over, I'm usually ready to move straight onto breakfast.

All in all, I'd recommend Porky's Last Stand for a Roman orgy.


Overall: 8 Knockles.
Meat: 9 Knockles.
Bristolas: 6 Knockles.
Ambience: 8 Knockles.
Tolerance of spending 45 minutes in the toilet with two lapdancers: 10 Knockles.

Price: Apparently, $8 gets you dinner and drinks for nine. That can't be right, can it?

I hope that helps you when you're considering a place for dinner next time you're in Florida. I think we both know it will.


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