I always wanted to be a cowboy. I even ride on a steel horse blasting Isobel Campbell through the mean streets of Thomasville like I am in an episode of Firefly – the best sci-fi western IMHO. I knew the final nail into my sassy cowgirl street cred coffin would be dining at Logan’s Roadhouse in West York City (insert whip sound).
When you walk into Logan’s Roadhouse, you’re greeted with country music and enough peanuts to feed a circus full of hungry elephants if you should desire. I thought that if I were homeless and hungry, I’d come here and order a glass of water and indulge in peanuts for dinner. At first, the crunching sound of these delicate little bodies of salty goodness under my feet were troublesome and my neat freak OCD nature emerged wishing I had a little dustpan to help clean up the mess. Luckily, that need for clean was quickly replaced by the abundance of people watching eye candy that was seated all over this mock country saloon. I could only presume that from the clientele, the people of Walmart come here to assist with the stereotype of fat Americans loving to indulge in gluttonous endeavors. Their presence made me look at the massive menu and realize that I could order all the fried food on the menu and still feel like in my curvy girl frame a thin supermodel of York City.
The service here is a mixture of young millennials who hate their existence that congregate in the corners of the restaurant to talk about profound things like Pokemon Go and drinking games while you desperately try to catch their eye just to get a water refill. The other half of the staff are sweet country-type women who love people and have adult bills to pay. Hopefully, when you dine here, you get that country lady-type server because you’ll never be thirsty, hungry for free bread, or lack good random conversation of mundane shit like growing peas, weather, and why the food is taking so long. I think someone is back there in the kitchen cooking the food, but you can’t be certain because when you’ve been waiting for 45-minutes for your food on a slow Sunday afternoon, look back there, all you’ll see are people standing around and not cooking. Having lived in the south, I can only presume that they are embracing that slow country living by assuming that everyone coming to dine has no place to be but Logans.
The Foods & Drinks
The food is affordable and decent, and I’ve never gotten sick. If you drink, you won’t know the difference, and any bacteria will probably be sanitized by the massive amounts of liquor in the cocktails. This overpouring of alcohol is due mostly to the rookie bartenders and their shaky hands. Delirium Tremens or nerves: You decide. If you’re looking to get completely shit-faced drunk like a real cowboy, you should order one of those fancy flights that come in mason jars. The chances are that 99% of the time there will be a couple of bartenders trying to figure out the correct mixture of blue#2, rum, and juice ingredients. Their ignorance is your gain and result in a burning of taste buds and forgetting about your troubles after one jar consumed. One should eat the bread as you wait for your food because one potent colorful pot down and three more to go, you’ll start wondering if you’re going to be able to stand up okay to use the bathroom. The prime rib here isn’t bad, but it isn’t great. You’ll find an affordable prime rib on the weekends, and since you can’t taste anything because you’re drunk, it’ll feel pretty good going down. Overall, the steak dishes I’ve had here comprise of poor cuts of meat and a smorgasbord of delightful down-home country sides. If you think you’re fat, the salads are fantastic and plentiful, and the rice, chicken, and fish dishes are spot-on. I mean, can you fuck up rice? You can also gorge your face with a “healthy steak salad” that will make you feel like you’re sticking to your diet. Overall the food is affordable, you get a lot for your money, but the quality of the food can be hit or miss. Don’t expect much in the way of quality — or just get drunk, and you’ll be happy.