I’m making a bet right now. I bet that I can write this review is less time than it took me to get my food at Logan’s Roadhouse in Trussville on a Saturday afternoon … at the bar. Oh, I’ve already heard some of the criticism of my soon to be criticism; “What did you really expect eating a burger at Logan’s (.@logansroadhouse)?” But let’s call that victim shaming; I didn’t ask for what happened to happen. I was innocent … except for the part where I actually held out hope about what might happen.
I’m going to change things up to end this review with a shout out. But as for the food, it was nigh unto inedible … but I ate it because the interminable wait left me queasy from peanut overload and grumpy.
At some point in its existence, the burger may have been cooked the way I asked … But heat lamps. Give. Off. Heat. The burger had sat under the heat for a long time, long enough that the bun on the burger had started to look like one of the new-fangled, dark brown pretzel buns (and I don’t think it was supposed to be toasted. More on that below). Except it wasn’t. It was just almost burned to a crisp; it cracked when I cut it.
And of course, if you’re nearly burning a bun, it’s likely cooking several other things on the burger that don’t need additional cooking — the meat. Maybe it aspired to medium, but it had zoomed past what I’d ask for and taken up residence at the “well.” And don’t ask me about what was going on with the lettuce. #cooked lettuce
I’d even indulged myself (not that a burger isn’t an indulgence) and asked for loaded fries, because I believe that Logan’s and the old “frozen fries” are in cahoots. But the cheese on the fries had hardened before they reached me. I mean hard. Like melted, then cooked-more-hard, like a fry casserole (minus the cream of mushroom).
It was simply awful. Don’t go there for a burger. Just don’t. Steaks, maybe. A big ol’ 22 oz beer, maybe.
But this travesty shouldn’t be seen as the fault of the waiter/bartender. The kitchen – well, possibly. I ordered the Roadhouse Deluxe which has “Brewski Onions” – an ad agency-charged signature name for a cooked, sautéed onion – and, ironically enough, “sautéed mushrooms” … and somehow what I got was kind of a passed off blend of what I ordered and their Cheeseburger, which has lettuce, tomato and pickle on a toasty brioche bun. Whatever it was they made me had sautéed onions and regular red onions on the same burger … a first for me, especially since I can cite several examples on this blog of my arms-length, grudging appreciation of the onion.
If they were trying to make amends, I should have suggested a free toothbrush.
The bartender that day was, in what I could see, let down by poor management of the restaurant. While we waited for our food at the bar, he filled drink order after drink order. The only food he delivered personally was ours. He’d noticed eventually – somewhere around the 25th drink he made — that our food had never been delivered. And he went and found it. He was nice the entire time, working us like he should have. But there was no second bartender, no consistent enough plan to run food to the bar seats, and it sat 15-20 people (not to mention filling all the non-bar alcohol orders, too). A bartender as busy as he was has to have help. Period.
Timely delivery would have likely made what I received weird (double onions), but edible. Perhaps the problem was too many people. Perhaps it was unclear responsibilities. Perhaps, the place was hosting 20 new recruits that day. IDK.
Working in a restaurant is hard work. It’s nonstop. The patrons can be jerks (I saw the one bartender successfully managing several while there – and he was very good and pleasant). The pay isn’t great. The coworkers run the gamut. And the people who love it, love it.
And the bartender there was as good as I’ve seen. And it’s like the Spinners said, It’s a shame, the way they messed around with that guy. Give him a raise. Give him some help. Because there are a lot of people, who, having an experience like I just had, wouldn’t give it another chance.