The Cat’s Meow #3

Lacking a camera, the majority of our regular crew and the slightest vestige of originality, Duck-boy and I took a familiar trip this weekend to Vancouver’s own ultimate showcase of entirely unattainable women, The Cat’s Meow. It had been a while since our last visit and we feel that the faithful readers are entitled to periodic updates to ensure that once a review is posted, proper follow ups are done, you know, to maintain the integrity of the site. Ok, fine, we were pretty much jonesing for an extended gander at some hot tail while we rode low in our couches and salaciously slurped our seven cups of coffee. 

In that respect, mission accomplished, as stepping into the Meow parallels in every way a sojourn inside the Playboy Mansion, save for the lack of pyjamas, the grotto and Bill Maher acting like a jackass. After being robotically greeted at the door by our vacant mannequin/hostess, we collapsed into our favourite forgiving furniture to admire the gallery of tight pants on loan from the Lululemon collection. For more details on décor and ambiance, etc, I invite the reader to peruse the two past reviews (onetwo) we’ve posted on the Meow, as from here on in the focus will be strictly on the food or food-like material we were presented with. 

Ducky, despite reservations due to past problems, optimistically ponied up $8 for the Eggs Benny but trouble was apparent before he even took his first eager bite. The hash browns on both our meals were intolerably overcooked in what tasted like week-old oil, leaving them with a stale, fishy aftertaste. A veritable ocean of ketchup couldn’t have salvaged these monstrosities and the both of us decided to quickly abandon them before incurring too much irreversible colonic damage. The Benny itself was topped with hollandaise of a consistency that one’s stool might approach after drinking a few gallons of Mexican tap water. All of this we, as big, big-hearted people, could have probably forgiven were it not for the fact that the sucker was actually cold! I mean, it wasn’t Freddie Prinze Jr. cold or anything but it war far from Ashton Kutcher hot, which is obviously the desired temperature respectable foodstuffs should be served at. 

I, sadly, found much the same with my $9 dill cream cheese and smoked salmon West Coast Benny. Although the salmon was adequately proportioned, the dill just wasn’t doing it for me and the surface-of-Neptune temperature didn’t exactly go a long way towards compensating for it. The saving grace of the meal was that, perhaps picking up on our discontent, our Penthouse Pet/waitress didn’t charge us for the exceptionally excessive amount of coffee we consumed. In addition, she allowed us to loiter, unfettered, for a good hour or so while we leered and laughed about the atmospheric conditions that would have to be present in Hell before we ever had a chance with any member of the staff. 

Seemingly content to rest on their squishy laurels and coast off their unapproachable good looks while their brunch menu stagnates, the folks at the Meow had better shake things up and return to the form that has garnered so many repeat visits from our licentious delegates. Or, I suppose, they could simply continue to hire unfathomably comely lasses, rendering us powerless to resist their harpy calls and compelling us to endure mediocre food just to bask in their presence, if only for a painfully short interval. Either way, despite our less-than-stellar experience this week, I’ve little doubt The Armada will drop anchor at the Cat’s Meow at some point in the future to sample their wares. Yes, folks, they’re just that hot.

Location

Crew

The Sick & Dirty

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