Yesterday, at the request of Maddison, who turns 11 on Wednesday, we went to Sizzler for lunch. The plan was to take down Seaworld but since the weather has been all shades of shit, we let her choose the (indoor) destination of her choice, as a replacement.
Now, I’m not sure if you know this, but we live on the Gold Coast, one of the largest and most well known tourist destinations in the world, so it kind of hurt my brain that we ended up shivering and waiting in a line at the Logan Sizzler which is about a 60 km round trip from our house. Yep, you can take your umpteen million dollar indoor entertainment venue and politely shove it up your arse, because it appears that the all you can eat dessert bar trumps all.
So after making it inside the restaurant, and negotiating where the inside line started, we stood and we waited. And we waited. And we waited. Well, it was 12pm on one of the wettest Sundays of the year in Logan where the most fun thing to do, is in fact, wait in line at Sizzler. So we waited.
To their credit, the waitress brought around cheese toast for the waiting patrons. After two pieces I was quite happy to cut and run. I mean, let’s face it, that’s all I was there for. I tried to coerce Maddie with offers to eat at any of the other nearby establishments or fast food joints. Nope. She wanted potato skins and was prepared to wait. Shit.
So we made it to the end. Over a hundred bucks later we were seated. It felt so, so right to order and down a West Coast Cooler at that point, so I did. And then I sat back and watched.
We had the obligatory table of fresh bogans finishing up to our right. The ones who never once made an attempt to remove their toddler from the direct path that the waiters and patrons were treading their way back and forth to the salad bar. Oh, sorry, they did, when an old duck with a walker-pusher nearly took the kids head off, they went ballistic at the old girl and then got off of their arses and moved said child.
Then there are the manners and spacial awareness that seem to go astray the minute some people step foot into these kinds of restaurants. They are just on the biggest fucking mission to get more wedges/pasta/chorizo salad and/or ice-cream that the basic common courtesy of waiting their turn or staying out of someones personal space, goes completely awol.
The thing is, after a while, we figured, if we couldn’t beat em, we should just join them. We let all three kids go nuts on fanta spiders and then, just for kicks, let them play build Mt Everest with icecream and smarties in their dessert bowls.
It took until about 9pm last night for them to come down from their kiddy crack high.
Meanwhile, I sat there and consumed my bodyweight in cheese toast and found I could barely move. So much so, I realised we had upgraded to feral bogan status ourselves as we didn’t even make a move on Jack, when he ended up here, under the table, eying off the old chewy.
Towards the end of our dining experience, a table of 21 young cult members sat down. One looked like this
that’s how I knew they were in some kind of weird robot jumper cult. Kidding, I don’t know what the hell they were there for, but it was clear they were judging our empty West Coast Cooler laden table and children catching jellybeans in their mouths and made the exact same assumption we had about Toddler family. Oh Em Gee, this place turns even the most normal people into lazy, greedy, space invading pigs.
In all seriousness though, it’s a great place to eat some very yummy food, not be too PC about the children, have a white wine spritzer without disapproving looks and best of all, know someone else has to wash up. Thank god we live 30 km’s away though, we can’t afford to be dropping hundred dollar bills on postmix pepsi and potato bake every weekend.
Happy Birthday for Wednesday beautiful girl.