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Dear Sunset: Why Can't You Be Better??

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Dear Sunset: Why Can't You Be Better??

litchick | Feb 21, 2008 02:08 PM

Dear Sunset Cantina,

I had tried to quit you, really I had. And I was successful for a time, but damn you and your way-too-convenient BU location. On that stretch of Comm Ave, you're really the only option for a quick beer and a bite, aren't you? Go ahead, rub my face in it.

Still and all, I had done pretty well, only visiting you for your attractive beer list, ignoring your iffy menu and crap margaritas. But the other day, there you were at the Extreme Beer Fest, handing out free food. And there I was, trying not to get drunk off the high-alcohol-content extreme beers. Your hot wings, they looked so inviting. I'd already had a sugar waffle, so wings it was. Not only were your wings delicious, but your jambalaya was really notably tasty, as was your spicy home-made pickle mix, which included, to my delight, pickled okra. Your sausage skewers weren't so great, but hey, I could forgive a misstep.

So there I was, last night, on a dismal stretch of Comm Ave, in a hurry for a bite... and there you were. Could it be possible, I wondered, that the Extreme Beer Fest chow was an indicator of a markedly better kitchen these days? I took a chance.

Fie on you, Sunset Grill. Why do you toy with my emotions like this? Your crabcake po'boy was a crime: mushy, mealy, pasty crabcakes, lined up on an odd bun, buried under tasteless tomato slices and approximately 17 square miles of alfalfa sprouts. I I know they're from the freezer, but do you have to give away the secret so easily? As if this weren't bad enough, your menu description tempted me with "a side of pickled okra and spicy carrots." Two baby carrots and a mini-okra -- all hiding so completely under the kale leaf garnish that I had to ask the server where the pickles even were -- do NOT constitute a "side." Sunset, don't you know any better?

Don't I know any better?

So that's it, Sunset. You and me, we're through. I'll still see you every once in a while for a drink, but I just can't commit my daily allottment of meal-calories to you any longer. It didn't have to end this way. Why couldn't you treat me as well as that one, special, beery night we had together?

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