Outback Steakhouse as a guilty pleasure. Rated ★★★☆☆
Outback is a guilty pleasure of mine; I generally come here alone on nights when the wife is otherwise occupied and I don’t feel sociable; I’ve also tried them in other cities when I’m not up to having an authentic local experience. I don’t as a rule like places with fake kitsch on the walls, but if it has to be there it might as well be fake Australian kitsch.
I sidle up to the bar, get a big cold frosty adult beverage, and order the “Outback Style Prime Rib” — side of veggies, raw, don’t skimp on the creamy horseradish; relatively inexpensive for a middling slab of cowflesh. Their bread is brown and thick and appears to be better for you than it probably is; even slathered in butter it’s got to be more nutritional than a bloomin’ onion.
Watch some sports on the tube, find my thoughts drifting down under. Ponder whether Steve Irwin died at the peak of his career; fail to care what ever happened to that Dundee bloke. Think how lucky I am to live in San Diego and not Coober Pedy. Shrimp on the barbie is pretty tasty, but I’d rather barbie them myself. Try to remember what exactly is a “drover.” Consider having a big “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert” party here sometime — that or Mad Max, or both. Drink my beer, eat my steak, and go home.