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Texas Roadhouse
120 Morrell Road
584-4150

by Les DuLunch

Western thought has got it all wrong. The trajectory of life is a circle, not a straight line. Where you are now will inevitably loop back to where you were then and if you didn't wake up each morning smarter than the day before, it would nearly be enough to drive you crazy.

Case in point. A few weeks back, the double doors of the fairly-new-to-Knoxville Texas Roadhouse's west location loomed before me like a sort of time warp, sucking me back into an evening a year and a half ago spent suffering through an interminable dinner at another one of the roadhouses that seem to have popped up around town [Logan's]. There, amidst a nightmarish setting of NASCAR and neon, I attempted to masticate a shiny, rock-like, teriyaki-marinated steak that looked and tasted like it had fallen to earth after burning up upon atmospheric entry while dirty children that I'd initially mistaken for piglets rooted around underfoot among the peanut shells that littered the floor. It was, in every sense of the word, dreadful.

Once bitten, this roadhouse experience had made me more than twice shy about the everything-old-is-new-again theme. While Ruby's, Applebee's, and other bland chains cluster on the fringes of suburban shopping malls to appeal to minivan-driving moms and dads, Texas Roadhouse captures a clientele by staking out discount department stores, lurking in their parking lots like some small-town, low-riding teenager. Texas' Kingston Pike location sits right outside K-Mart, while the eastern one lies just behind Wal-Mart. Parking-lot-house might be a more appropriate name than roadhouse, and the baby aspirin-colored lights at night certainly are big and bright.

But, ever brave, I shuddered, shrugged, and pressed on into Texas' wood-slat walled, plastic cacti-dotted interior terrain. Passing by the fresh meat counter where beautifully jewel-toned cuts of beef bedded down in lettuce leaves, I fearfully wondered if this experience could possibly be as bad as the last, or worse—on par with the late-'80s big hair, tight jeans, and Patrick Swayze barroom brawl epic of the same name?

Not exactly. But Texas Roadhouse wasn't overwhelmingly wonderful or distinctive in any way either.

The menu was just as flat and dull as western Texas, or a parking lot for that matter, consisting of the same steaks, ribs, chicken, pork, and burgers in rather uninventive combinations that might be found virtually anywhere. Despite its evocation of a state that was once (and, for many intents and purposes, is again) a part of Mexico, Texas Roadhouse offered surprisingly few nods to its south-of-the-border neighbor, except for the not quite native pepper poppers—those disgustingly viscous explosions of cheese housed inside the deep-fried shell of a jalapeno—here known as Iguana Eggs. (There are iguanas in Texas?) Not a leaf of cilantro unfolded anywhere in the foodscape and what peppers there were, whether sweet or spicy, were few and far between. So it came as no surprise that this is a Texas as imagined by a corporation that's based in Kentucky.

The restaurant does earn points for having the temerity to call one of its dishes "road kill," though. The Tennessee special consists of chopped steak, with onions, mushrooms, and Jack cheese—the only thing missing are pulpy chunks of tomato or a ramekin of ketchup.

A basket of butter-brushed yeast rolls got our meal quickly under way. Spreading on copious amounts of the soft accompanying cinnamon butter improved upon their too-chewy texture, but the inevitable peanuts proved the appetizer of choice. Fredro and I practically polished off the whole bucket, compulsively cracking them open and depositing the shells neatly into an empty bucket instead of regressing to Freudian mess-making stage and throwing them on the floor.

Next up, despite the two freebie appetizers, came a Cactus Blossom ($5.49), the Texas Roadhouse version of Chili's Awesome Blossom or Outback Steakhouse's Bloomin' Onion. Made palatable only by the low-key red pepper and sour cream dipping sauce, it tasted mostly of hot oil and wasn't nearly as easy to eat as those make-your-own-onion-blossom television commercials make it seem. The indeterminate casing kept sliding off, leaving a limp, greasy onion sliver shuddering naked on the plate.

A temporary outage of prime rib forced Fredro to opt for the Dallas Filet ($15.99, 8 oz.), a thick and juicy 10-gallon hat-sized cut. What's to be said? It was very big. It was very well cooked. It was a very fine steak, served with a baked spud and thankfully not over-steamed veggies.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I was working on one of my two thin, bone-in pork chops ($11.99), flattened, grilled, and spiced only with a shake or two of black pepper. A baked sweet potato, slathered in more of the cinnamon butter, and smoky but vaguely firm baked beans that had almost as much crumbled bacon and bits of beef as actual beans rounded things out.

So, ultimately, I must ask: Why? What does the Texas Roadhouse contribute to Knoxville that wasn't already here in the first place? Nothing. Might as well go full circle, give back its independence, and let it go.
 

May 4, 2000 * Vol. 10, No. 18
© 2000 Metro Pulse