I've never felt compelled to do this; pen a review about a restaurant in my neighborhood. In fact, it's unnecessary to even finish this. You're a grownup. Make your own choices. Stop listening to voices coming from a box! But I went here the first week it opened. Everyone in the new restaurant category gets a three-month grace period in my mind. So when it comes to getting their stuff in order, I am quick to brush off the small stuff like awkward service and lackluster presentation— staples during my October visit. But now the opinion from places_meta.City of Ate has come out, and so, I too, shall rip into the buns of Jerry's Wood-Fired Hotdogs. Speaking of ripped buns, my extremely salty dogs tore through the moist bread Jerry provides for his in-house wieners. The light bun tasted great but had the resilience of a wet napkin trying to cope with a new job and his dog's drinking problem. For those trying to figure what I'm talking about, and wondering why you're still waisting your time reading this, it was flimsy, just like my analogy. Like go-for-your-first-bite-and-have-everything-fall-through-the-bottom kind of flimsy. I was then forced to make amends with these severed bread receivers. I had to pick up a fork. But it didn't make this hot dog massacre any prettier. I mean come on, I had to eat a hot dog with a fork. Hot dog. Fork. Hot dog. Fork. It's just as weird to read those previous sentences as it is to have to eat a hot dog with a fork. Hot dog. Fork. Oh, God. All this hot dog blasphemy has ripped open a weird hot dog/fork time continuum. Hot dog. Fork. I didn't even get to express how the food took ages to get to me despite being one of two customers. Hot dog. Fork. Or how it was expensive. Hot dog. Fork. How will you ever know about the "mesquite fired grill" that made me feel like I was at a crappy campfire with an abusive relative? Hot dog. Fork. Hot dog. Fork. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. It's a giant hot dog on a fork. Noooooooooooo...
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