Twin Peaks Review

A New Place To Pitch Your Tent

Jennifer Wohletz
5 min read
Where lumberjacks go for their ESPN fix. (Tabatha Roybal)
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I’ve been harboring an embarrassing secret for a decade. I applied as a server at Hooters and was rejected. Maybe it was my weird, multicolored hair, my sailor mouth or perhaps it was the Corona bottle and Marlboro light I was nursing during my brief job interview, but the manager took one look at me and offered me a position as a cook. I left, my ego crushed like a beer can. But as luck would have it, a TGI Friday’s opened up a few weeks later, and it was like I had found my new home.

I bore Hooters no ill will after a week’s worth of bitching, and I’ve been in a few times for a glut of oyster shots (I needed closure, right?). So when I heard about Twin Peaks, a fairly new twist on the old Hooters formula of meat + beer + boobs = happy guys, I was actually eager to stop in to satisfy my wry curiosity.

Twin Peaks is located in the building that used to house Rockfish, in the sprawling restaurant metro area of The 25 Way. I was immediately greeted by an enormous outdoor mural of a buxom cowgirl proudly showing off her wares, next to the phrase “Come and Get It!” I went inside to find the place was packed with dudes from every walk of life, all of whom looked very pleased to be there.

Thank god I brought my dining companion Ike with me for a male perspective. We opted to sit on the patio to avoid the hefty wait for an indoor table. Our server, Gina, was clad in the regulation uniform of a tiny red-and-black checkered flannel tie-top with an open front, the shortest shorts imaginable and cutsie faux-wilderness-whacking boots. As expected, you can really see more meat on these ladies than on the chicken wings they’re hawking, and the wings are pretty meaty.

Ike was trying not to stare directly at her tater ta-tas as she took our orders, but I laughed my ass off as I noticed his pupils drawn to her chest like a big green fly to a cow pattie.

The menu was perfect for the place; two pages long, the first contained meat and chili, the second liquor, beer and wine. We ordered the "red hot" Buffalo wings (12 for $8.49), the crispy shrimp dinner ($11.25), ribeye pot roast ($11.50) and a couple of rum and Cokes. The classic dude-food menu included other testosterone-friendly offerings such as barbecue pulled-pork nachos, fried jalapeño chips, a sirloin chili cheese dog and Jack Daniel’s with ice.

The indoor dining area is decorated with apropos fake hunting lodge furniture and lots of wood and plaid. I had a good chuckle while walking through the bar, because in between the multitude of flat-screen TVs blaring ESPN, the tables were packed with so many military guys in uniform it looked like
Fort Bragg.

And, of course, there were the ladies.

From a purely shallow standpoint, the servers were all pretty hot. Blondes, brunettes, short, tall, shy, sassy and even a smoky-luscious tattooed goth girl. I did not get a tawdry strip-club feel from the place, and manager Jamie and I agreed the restaurant isn’t quite a nudie bar, but not quite
Applebees—something in between.

“The girls are all having fun here,” she said.

Although our food wasn’t particularly creative fare, it wasn’t bad at all. The pot roast was excellent, tender and oniony, the mashed potatoes were thick and chunky, and the bacon-laden side of green beans was tasty. Our appetizer wings came out with the entrées, but Gina was so darn adorable about it that we couldn’t get mad if we wanted to. They were lightly breaded, meaty as all giddyup, but not very spicy. Ike’s shrimp were plump, delicious and hand-breaded with lots of pepper. The coleslaw was fresh and my cocktail wasn’t watered down. After we’d tucked into our food for a minute, Gina came over and sat down next to Ike and chatted us up.

I was having a blast watching Ike try to avoid directly ogling her goodies. I was also pleased to learn that even though this was a place where girls provide the “scenic views,” the diners are required to mind their manners or get the boot from a bouncer. I talked to manager Jamie on the way out and teased her about her lack of revealing uniform. She laughed, tugged at her conservative shirt and slacks, and said, “Hell, no! I’m fine like this.”

I genuinely had fun eating here. In fact, I might even send the hubby/boyfriend in with a gift card for some good, clean fun—as long as he returns with one of their signature “It’s My Favorite Breastaurant” T-shirts for me.

Twin Peaks Review

The Alibi Recommends:

• Wings

• Ribeye pot roast

• Crispy shrimp

• The “scenic views”

Clear visual proof that “Twin Peaks” is a double entendre.

Tabatha Roybal

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