A Conservative's Culinary Misadventure at "Girl Power Eats"
Recounting a dining experience where ideology trumped taste, and the customer was anything but right.
My family and I, fresh from a wholesome road trip through the heartland, were famished and looking for a spot to refuel. We stumbled upon a quaint lakeside joint called "Girl Power Eats," nestled in the northern wilds. The sign promised "liberated dining," which I figured meant farm-to-table or some such nonsense. Little did I know, we were walking into a feminist fortress where the menu was heavy on dogma and light on flavour.
From the moment we stepped inside, it felt less like a restaurant and more like a TED Talk gone rogue. The walls were plastered with slogans like "Smash the Patriarchy, Not the Potatoes" and "Consent Is Required for Condiments." The hostess, sporting a buzzcut and a scowl, eyed me like I'd personally invented the wage gap. My wife whispered, "Maybe they're just passionate about their brand," but the vibe screamed re-education camp more than rustic eatery.
We were seated at a wobbly table under a portrait of Gloria Steinem glaring down like she knew I'd once skipped a women's studies class. The chairs were mismatched, which I assume was a statement on "breaking the binary" or some such. The air was thick with the scent of burnt sage and sanctimony.
The menu was a spiral-bound manifesto, printed on recycled hemp paper, naturally. Dishes had names like "Intersectional Salad" (a chaotic mix of wilted greens and regret) and "Decolonised Quinoa Bowl" (which cost $24 and tasted like colonial guilt). I asked for a burger, hoping for something normal, but the server, a gender studies major with a nose ring, corrected me: "We don't serve 'burgers.' That's a patriarchal construct. Try our 'Equity Patty.'" I didn't dare ask what was in it.
The kids' menu was just a single item: "Future Ally Nuggets," served with a side of "microaggression-free ketchup." My son asked for fries, and the server launched into a five-minute lecture about how potatoes perpetuate colonial violence. We settled for water, which was free but came with a side-eye for not ordering the $12 "Empowered Electrolyte Elixir."
The service was where things really went off the rails. Our server seemed to take personal offense at my existence. When I asked for a fork, she slammed it down and muttered, "Check your privilege." My wife, bless her, tried to lighten the mood by complimenting the decor, only to be told it was "problematic" to aestheticize labour. I'm pretty sure the busboy was live-tweeting our meal with hashtags like #ToxicMasculinityEats.
At one point, I made the mistake of asking for salt. The server gasped, as if I'd requested a side of misogyny. "Salt is a tool of oppression," she declared, before offering me a shaker of "feminist tears" (which, I swear, was just Himalayan pink salt with extra guilt). The food took an hour to arrive, probably because the kitchen was busy holding a consciousness-raising session.
When the plates finally arrived, they were a masterclass in disappointment. My "Equity Patty" was a sad puck of lentils and kale, served on a bun that tasted like it was baked during a protest. My wife's "Sisters Unafraid Soup" was a lukewarm broth with floating bits of what I can only describe as performative suffering. The kids' nuggets were suspiciously chewy, and I'm pretty sure they were made of tofu and broken dreams.
The bill came with a mandatory "solidarity surcharge" to fund the restaurant's "reparative justice initiatives." I asked what that meant, and the server handed me a pamphlet about dismantling capitalism. I left a tip, out of habit, not approval, and was promptly informed that tipping is a "capitalist microaggression." I couldn't win.
This wasn't a restaurant; it was a social experiment masquerading as one. Every bite came with a lecture, every sip with a sermon. If you enjoy dining where the staff treats you like a war criminal for wanting a napkin, this is your place. For me, I'd rather grill a steak in my backyard and call it freedom.
As we left, my daughter asked why everyone was so angry. I told her it's what happens when ideology gets a Yelp page. Next time, we're sticking to a diner where the only agenda is serving food that doesn't taste like a sociology textbook.
https://www.theblaze.com/align/i-went-to-a-restaurant-run-by-feminists-and-it-was-terrible
"I went to a restaurant run by feminists, and it was terribleThe general vibe was more reminiscent of a hostage situation than a dining establishment.
I went to a restaurant run by feminists, and it was terrible.
You probably have a lot of questions. I would too if I were the one reading that sentence rather than the one writing it.
How exactly do I know it was run by rabid feminists? Why exactly was it terrible because it was run by such feminists? I will explain.
My wife, children, and I were on vacation. We were off in the deep north of the Middle West. After driving for a few hours, we were ready for a bite to eat. There aren't too many options that far out in the northern wilderness.
We were thankful to find a place — any place! — about 15 minutes away, right on a lake. A small restaurant on a lake up north, that's got to be an easy-going, relaxing place to have lunch, right?