My husband wrapped work early and he suggested that we go to Patrick’s Roadhouse. It’s a beautiful day on the West Side. Kind of chilly, the waves kicking up and brilliantly royal blue. Perfect time to hit up a place we’ve always whizzed by but never stopped.
Patrick’s Roadhouse is a gem. It’s got a storied history and it’s considered an institution. But the food is a little, well, wacky.
But before we get to the food, let’s talk about my biggest mistake in choosing it. It’s not a bar. Now I’m not a total alcoholic. Not totally. A place doesn’t have to serve liquor to be awesome but you kind of need a drink to eat here.
The food portions are huge. Like crazy huge. Ian ordered chili fries. They were served on a hub cap. I’m kind of kidding. I appreciate value but this was kind of crazy. Plus, it was canned chili dumped on fresh fries.
Or maybe they made it but it just looked like a mess. I guess that’s the point of chili fries and I’m a dickhead for saying something. But you can stop reading and eat there to spite me. Which I’m totally fine with.
I had a burger and truffle fries. The burger was just fine. Well made. I even liked the sweet pickles. Nice touch. But again with the fries. I got fresh, hand cut fries doused in truffle oil and then…a snowfall of packaged, shredded cheese. I thought the “w/parmesan” was maybe a shaving of. I didn’t realize it would be a ski slope.
I’m way too Southern to complain. So we were polite when the waitress saw that we were leaving so much of the food. Nearly all of it. I felt guilty. It seemed like such a waste. But it was a huge pile of grease.
We were the only ones in the place as it was 5 pm on a Thursday. We felt exposed. Rude. We smiled. Tipped well. And skulked out to the parking lot. Even as I write this, I feel guilty. Like picking on an old person. Like crapping on something universally loved.
And because of that guilt, we’ll probably return. But only when someone comes for a visit and want a hub cap full of food.