Saturday, November 28, 2009

The Big Rig Diner – Not The Ticket

The Big Rig Diner

Traversing the backstreets of Darlinghurst and Surry Hills in a rusty Ford last night, we were in search of cheap eats. The little hand had just passed 11 and, not being inclined towards pizza or kebabs or Mexican (I carry the fussy gene), we were drawing blanks.

"Ruby Rabbit!"
"No I don’t want to dance I want to eat."
"No, the diner. "
"Oh yeah, the diner. I heard it’s shit."
“Let’s just go. It’s near your bus stop."
"Oh yeah it’s near the bus stop. Clincher."

And so we stacked ourselves into a booth at the Big Rig Diner. Sweaty skin sticking to vinyl, sceney kids nodding ‘hey babe how’s it going’ from the other side of the room, lip reading as top of the pops circa 1982 blared over conversations. I’m about to say that it was the worst food I’ve ever been served, but before I do, I would first like to say that the staff are darlings.
They mucked up our order and comped us our starter to make up for it even though we didn’t complain or particularly mind . They smiled and smiled and smiled, all of them, and they’re a bit cute to look at too.

The problem with cute staff, however, is that the chances of them also making great food are slim because their ‘good looks’ genes crowd out the ‘good cooks’ genes. At the Big Rig Diner they fail in the kitchen with flying colours. The Caesar salad came so heavily doused in dressing that oil literally dripped off the lettuce leaves into a big puddle in the bottom of the bowl. It was slimy, at best. The ribs tasted of burnt meat and nothing much else, and the steak wasn’t much better. The only thing they got right was the chips, and I would venture a guess that if we’d ordered hotdogs they would’ve been good too because they’re almost impossible to screw up and tend to taste better when served in genuine diners (as opposed to cafes), you see.

As I don’t like hotdogs, I will never eat there again. If only there was an all-night organic salad bar on Oxford St. With hot staff.