If you’re like most people, you like your restaurants thematically uncomplicated and easily pigeonholed. You go out seeking a good meal, not allegories, metaphors and metaphysical puzzles, and the less you have to decipher what kind of restaurant it is (or what type of cooking is going on) the better.
Confession may be good for the soul, but it’s probably not the best way to begin a restaurant review. But in the spirit of full disclosure, certain things must be acknowledged: I haven’t been a fan of Dallas, Texas since November 22, 1963. When you combine the horrific events of that day with an general dislike of Cowboys (I’m a Giants fan), big hair and bigger belt buckles, you could say this city on the Trinity River ain’t exactly my cup of chili. The fact that I haven’t been here in twenty-five years has kept these prejudices firmly entrenched, even though this city has now outgrown them by such a degree that thinking of Dallas as a cow town is like referring to Manhattan as a Dutch trading post.
How wrong could we be?
In the months it took Glutton to open, we predicted its downfall for a number of reasons. One, it seemed to take months too long to get launched; two, there was the name (and that awful logo); and three, just who in the hell was this Bradley Manchester fellow anyway?