From the people who brought you The Week in Craig, one of the all time great uses of the internet, comes The Week in Yelp, wherein Amy Blair takes aim at the ridiculousness that is the world of Yelp. Her intrepid Yelp-surfing, and words, follow:
Having lived in the Twin Cities for several years, I harbor a deep love/hate relationship with the Midwest. Love: summer at the lake, driving a car, everything is cheap, state fairs are awesome. Hate: extreme cold winters, bad public transportation, ranch dressing, the smell of farm shit wafting for miles Even so, my love of the Midwest outweighs the hate. What can I say? I'm a sucker for cows. (Err?).
That said, the Midwestern love fest isn't exactly continuing over on Yelp. This week it's all about big city Yelpers hatin' on the flyover country. Sorry Midwest, but this week, you're goin' down
First up, a review of In-N-Out Burger from a former Wisconsinite with a little, um, chip on her shoulder when it comes to her former homeland. Also, you gotta love the opening line of her review. “Imagine if you will a land of flat land ” That’s just classic.
Imagine if you will a land of flat land, polish sausage-colored thighs, bratwurst, and beer. A land called Wisconsin, shaved down by the last ice age, flat as some European tourist's pancake ass, vacant of the Holy Grail called In-n-Out.Geez, what the hell did Sheboygan ever do to you, sister? All this pent up rage exposed by a simple trip to an In-N-Out Burger? Lady, have a cheese curd and chill out.
My first In-n-Out experience meant me coming across some Internets rumor of a sign strategically shot out to read 'In N Out URGE' on some foreign West coast freeway. I didn't know then what exactly this was but knew somehow I had to get a piece of it.
Now, of course, nearly 10 years later, I'm a fully naturalized Californian complete with total lack of aversion towards illicit substances of the marijuana form and strange hipster accent.
So I'll be God damned if I don't now work merely blocks away from an In-n-Out that once stood as some elusive California thing my underage Wisconsin ass may never ever find in my adventures across Sheboygan and Brown fucking Deer.
A girl cannot live on junk food alone. Even with my green tea/Burrito diet (don't ask, bitch, just know I got it and you don't), I still make a half-assed stab at eating right. Red Bull makes a good breakfast. It has vitamins and shit, motherfucker!
But sometimes, between coworkers' radishes and gingerbread cakes and awesome dinners courtesy of my boy, a girl craves some shitty comfort food.
This location is always packed. But so is the Wharf so what the fuck do you want? The natives have to fight an entire family of snarly Germans just to get a God damn burger down by my work hood, that's just how it is, homie.
I got down there and back to the office in 20 minutes flat this afternoon and had an extra 3 lbs of double double weighing down my ass for the remainder of my day but oh fucking well. At least I know my useless Wisconsinite high school friends don't get to eat like this. Ima Facebook your bitch ass a la Superpoke, double double sitting like a ton of bricks in my gut and all. You don't know me and my exotic Northern California lunch choices.
p.s. One girl who works here is awesomely rad but I'm too fucking busy and too rare a sight to even ask her name.
PS. Shout out to all my useless New Jersey high school friends – Ima Facebook your bitch asses a la Superpoke. Remember that.
I always try to good-naturedly "warn" people about this place before I take them there ("this is fun, but fair warning: it's a dive beyond a dive"), but I've realized my friends don't always believe me 'til they're inside, when the conversation ends up containing lines like this:
"I sort of feel like I'm in an episode of Roseanne."
"What's that smell?" (15 minutes later) "My god, is that the old man?"
"This place looks like you could find fossilized remains below the barstools."
"Are we at a Minnesota truck stop?"
If all this doesn't make you want to go out of at least sheer morbid curiosity, I'm frankly not sure what will.
Looks like Roseanne Barr hangs out there, smells like old man farts must be Minnesota!
And as if that wasn’t mean enough, a second blow to the home of the lutefisk, Prince and the Mall of America
(How could you not love this state?)
Alright, so I work in the Rock which means I should be avoiding Starbucks at all costs since the line is usually ridiculously long and full of tourists that have no idea how lines function. But usually when it's that busy, my drink is made correctly and usually before Bob from Minnesota's 35 kid size hot chocolates.
But on the day where it was, for once, not busy (because it was raining and tourists will not walk around in the rain apparently) they forgot to even make my drink. I stood there for about 6 minutes and asked if she shouted my drink (steamed vanilla soy milk with peppermint shots) ... the barista forgot all about it, upped my drink to a venti but never apologized or even acknowledged that I was the only customer standing there and kept asking 'excuse me...'
But yeah, I still spend 10 minutes of my break waiting in line here.
(Poor Minnesota. I still love you!).
And last but not least, this review of El Tarasco. It’s short. It’s to the point. And it sticks it to the Midwest where it hurts
Greasy and sloppy Mexican food. Beats me why everyone loves this place so much. Well, then again, the person who took me there was from the Midwest.
Hey Midwesterners – you suck! You wouldn’t know good Mexican food if it came up to you and punched you in the face! Just do us all a favor and take your Prairie Home Companion and your ice fishing and get the hell out of our coastal cities.
(Or at least bring cheese curds when you come to visit).
For more stories from Eater SF, go to sf.eater.com.