"Taste of Home" Restaurant a Creepy Hit

ollowing the unexpected and largely unwelcome success of the country’s first cereal-only restaurant in Philadelphia, in which patrons can curl up in their pajamas and dine on a wide array of breakfast cereals while watching television and reading the paper, a troubling assortment of novelty theme restaurants have popped up across the country over the last year. From Albany’s “Nothing But Napkins� to Baton Rouge’s “Leftovers, Inc.�, theme restaurants are the current toast of the town, and not just Albuquerque’s “Toast Town.� Perhaps the most disturbing of these is Houston, Texas’ “Taste of Home,� an existential crisis of a theme restaurant that recreates the experience of sharing a meal with your apathetic, abusive parents using the magic of animatronics.

Inside the restaurant, patrons sit at a single huge, oversized table on giant chairs, recreating the experience of childhood dining, while a giant animatronic robot mother and father bicker bitterly over family finances. The food is, true to form, largely tasteless and occasionally burnt, depending on whether or not that night’s “show� includes one of the robot mother’s trademark boozy crying jags while food burns on the stove.

Though the restaurant’s menu is starkly limited—you’ll eat what you get and like it, according to the robot father’s genuinely menacing aside—patrons can plan their visits around their favorite entrees, since a strict meal rotation is in place due to the “family’s� tight finances and father’s inability to humble himself by asking for a raise at work. Sunday nights, diners can thrill to pork chops and apple sauce, while Monday nights are for Spam on toast and Tuesdays feature baked chicken. Wednesday is casserole night; Thursday is fish, and Friday night the restaurant orders in pizza from a local pizzeria. Saturday nights the animatronic parents are often absent, and diners have to fend for themselves among the half-empty cereal boxes and bags of flour left over in the kitchen. For that reason, the commune cannot recommend visiting “Taste of Home� on a Saturday, unless both you and your date are on a diet.

Though the experience might sound grim to some, it does serve as a strange sort of childhood therapy to others, not unlike a trip to Arby’s. And a strange sort of camaraderie does develop at the restaurant’s one large table, as patrons compare notes on what might be in the casserole and provide each other comfort when father flies into one of his dramatic, table-shaking rages. The restaurant also features the world’s only black and white big screen TV, though patrons are advised not to attempt changing the channel or questioning father’s viewing choices. But the warm, conversation-killing glow of television (usually tuned to auto racing or a boxing match) does serve to masterfully complete the restaurant’s ambiance.

Regardless of these positives, however, the commune must recommend skipping out before the meal’s dessert course, lest you find yourself stuck there half the night washing the restaurant’s giant, oversized dishes.

Readers interested in experiencing the restaurant for themselves while visiting the Houston area can call 1-555-EAT-HOME to let them know when you’ll be home for dinner, though we do strongly recommend against calling collect.

Lost Scout Earns Coveted “Distract the National Media” Badge

House Democrats Uneasy During Rare Trip Outside

Big Ratings Prompts ABC to Seek More Dancing Handicapped Shows

Strychnine Dog Food: Where Can You Buy It?

Everyone here has had a gay old time over the weekend, some an extremely gay old time, but I'm not naming names (Larry and Mitch). For the lateness in the year dictated it was time for the annual commune picnic/field day combination.

Why have you never heard of this before? you ask. To which I counter, What are you implying? If you're insinuating there's a conspiratorial angle to this picnic/field day of ours, I say you're pissing up the wrong rope. Go bother the president or some corporation, Upton Sinclair. I'm merely trying to tell everyone what a good time we had the annual company picnic/field day.

Anyone who's heard numerous compliments to Lil Duncan's sack-racing ability shouldn't be surprised Lil holds her title once again as queen in the sack. Raoul Dunkin came extremely close to winning this year, then suddenly stopped before the finish line—I would guess the idea of adding "queen in the sack" to his list of ever-growing titles wasn't a happy thought. Lil wouldn't have even been challenged, I expect, if I hadn't been sharing the sack with her. It was quite a confusing registration this year, let's leave it at that.

Bludney Plud came in last place, to no one's surprise. I sometimes think he relishes the attention for always coming in last. He does come in last in everything, including the Typing Contest and the Belle of the Picnic pageant. As usual, Lil felt a little robbed when Stigmata Spent won yet again, but if you have the legs, you just have 'em.

The picnic planners, me and my Sampson L. Hartwig hat, allowed a new event this year: The build-and-race-your-own-go-cart contest, following Omar's suggestion. We decided it was better to just hold the contest and see what happens rather than run the risk of Mr. Bricks crashing the picnic with another highly-flammable go-cart made at home. It was quite a rousing success, though Ivan Nacutchacokov lost two fingers in the process, even not involved in the building or racing. I say anything is a good time now that we have the ability to surgically reattach limbs.

The food was better than ever this year. Clarissa Coleman brought a soup made of things she was about to throw out from her fridge. I didn't actually try it, but Boner Cunningham said it was good shortly before passing out—it sounded like he was going to say good, more of a guttural sound from the back of the throat. Roland McShyster even provided the entertainment for the whole thing, a viewing of the Hulk movie he downloaded illegally from the internet. I'm not much on films, truthfully, but that Bill Bixby is quite the actor, and the Hulk looked quite realistic for computer animatronics. After that, Roland treated us to a surprise "jam" band featuring Omar Bricks, Rok Finger's friend Lee, and Ted Ted on drums. It was more aesthetic music than I'm used to, more appealing to the mind than fun for its musical sounds, such as Omar eating the microphone then regurgitating it, but I say let the kids enjoy their fun and let a stodgy older fellow like me stay out of the way.

If there's one thing I took home from that picnic, besides the peculiar brownies made by Boris Utzov, it was the commune is more like my family than my original family. At least I talk to the commune staff once a year or more. It was a shame to have spent so much time without them on the road, but I swear I'll make it up to them by being the best darned editor forever on out.

Also, if anyone knows the specific whereabouts of Features Editor Mazie the Chicken, please inform us immediately. I'm afraid I tore through the barbecue chicken roast a little too fast, and I'm worried for her safety.

º Last Column: Saddam Hussein: Dead or Alive 3
º more columns

Dear commune:

How come we don’t have no national holidays for stuff that’s happened while I was alive? Was the past so great we’ve really got to be celebrating that junk all the time? Gimmie a break. I don’t even like the president, what am I supposed to do on President’s Day? Go to work by myself? Fat chance. We should have a "Remember When the Cubs Won the Pennant?" day or a "Joey Knocked Up That Hot Blonde Who Works Down at the Bottling Plant" day. That’d be fun. I’d vote for it, if I voted. But if I thought I was filling out a rebate for batteries and then it turned out I was voting on accident, then forget that! Because shame on you guys for tricking me. Damn. So pass it on.

Yours,

Jack Hargraves
Hell’s Belt, NV


Dear Jack:

Wow, it’s rare that the commune receives a letter with that level of thought, or motor oil, put into it. We thank you for taking the time to dig a piece of scrap paper out of your trunk and writing to us. And we think you’ll be pleased to know that we here at the commune celebrate holidays for any conceivable reason, including "Lil Duncan Negative Prego Test Day" and "Griswald Dreck Says It’s Bastille Day Day." It doesn’t take much to get us out of the office and into a dry martini, let’s just say that. Or a keg filched from some uppity needlepoint magazine’s office party, whatever it takes. So you’re in good company Jack, as long as you don’t ever show up here or write us again. We’ll be sure to add "Remember When the Cubs Didn’t Suck Day" and "Joey’s Fucked Now Day" to our office calendar.

the commune

---

Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for any of the many creative ways your lover left you, we were just humming that song in the elevator and it appeared to strike a chord. So please, give the commune a break, Jake.

º Last Column: Volume 49
º more columns