By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
But there are countless other examples of cultural dynamism that leave me flummoxed. I'm perplexed by the throng of conscientious voters glued to the evening news to hear Dan Rather say "oral sex" with veteran Vietnam War journalist seriousness before they lapse into parental crisis when their kids chirp "What's that?"
I don't get why, after a 30-year tsunami of rock and roll debauchery, the Rolling Stones haven't yet been embalmed and forgotten--or at least why they don't scream loud enough to rattle the storm windows in Waxahachie every time they pee. I don't get the whole Michael Jackson-Lisa Marie Presley thing either. Not why their 18-month marriage didn't draw gut-wrenching laughter instead of mass fascination, but how--given the personal oddities of "The King"--there ever came to be a Lisa Marie.
And I don't get why every time I face a media outlet, Ally McBeal stares back at me. Who is this bundle of prime-time neurosis with a law degree? The depth of my failure to grasp this bit of cultural iconography struck me last football season when Pat Summerall urged me not to miss the show's next installment because it was so shocking, he couldn't even talk about it. This from a guy whose broadcast partner, John Madden, blathers endlessly about scrimmage snot and lineman butt cleavage.
I say all of this so you get a sense of my blindness to the potent dynamics driving markets and culture. Because despite the fact that Cool River is clean, roomy, and accented with some of the most crisply handsome decorative touches found in any restaurant, this sizzling $6 million adult-entertainment hypermart gives me the creeps.
This feeling first struck when I began my 20-minute dinner wait in Cool River's huge bar with its dizzyingly high ceilings. This watering crater is equipped with a large, shimmering glassed-in billiard room (Cool River founder Stephen Hartnett is an avid billiards player) and scads of big- and little-screen TVs positioned to interfere with every conceivable line of sight. Hartnett claims he intentionally made the thing cavernous because so many Dallas restaurants are saddled with uncomfortable, tight-fitting bars. Yet I had to elbow through knots of excited, beer-sloshing humanity before I could order the drink for which I so desperately thirsted after experiencing 15 chaotic minutes of Cool River's confused valet-parking service.
And what a crowd it was. I was sandwiched between hordes of middle-aged mid-level execs and professional types noisily preening and posturing before clusters of sinuous studs and primped young birds in full tight-fitting, spike-heeled mating regalia. Was I witnessing the furious release of pent-up claustrophobia from dwellers of Las Colinas' "planned residential villages"?
As I traveled to my table past the cigar and cognac lounge outfitted with chess tables, beyond the merchandise case with Cool River caps and T-shirts, through the foyer with a crackling fireplace below a sprawling deer-antler chandelier, it struck me that this pseudo-cozy entertainment warehouse cum residential lodge was not only bustling and energetic, it was completely without soul.
But you don't get the full force of this deficiency until you have a seat in the dining room, where the earsplitting ambiance and runway-sized cowboy mural provide a grating backdrop for spectacularly impersonal service. Soullessness also anchors a "Texas-eclectic" menu that seems nipped and tucked for a photo-op instead of created for an appetite.
On the first visit, our server pierced the Cool River din with the brisk, staccato delivery of a hyperactive auctioneer hopped-up on espresso. Every service step seemed choreographed with the fierce determination to reach one goal: turning tables. She delivered our salads promptly, and the house salad--lettuce, chopped egg, chewy bacon, tomato wedges, and homemade seasoned croutons splashed with lively citrus vinaigrette spiked with rosemary--was actually one of the best things on the menu. But the Caesar caliente, despite crisp lettuce, generous shavings of smoked Romano cheese, and a scattering of those same croutons, was clobbered by a too-powerful, over-salted ancho dressing.
Before we could nibble a second salad bite, however, our server was shoving our entrees--an 8-ounce filet mignon and a spiny lobster tail--under our noses. Is this menu prefab, or what? We protested, and our dinners were whisked away, no doubt to do some hard time under a warmer while we finished our salads.
Not that the suffering could have been compounded much. The filet, though visually perfect and moist, was thin and mealy, with very little flavor save bitter grill grit. The rear end of that lobster, though, was an utter disaster: chewy, fibrous, dry, and virtually void of flavor. Plus, it came with this cilantro-citrus butter dipper charged with Tabasco powder, a pairing that perhaps didn't spend enough time in the prototype stage. If it is assumed that Cool River does, on occasion, serve tails with flavor, any such traces would be instantly eradicated by this weapon of mass entree destruction. This is not to say the idea is a non-starter, just that some strenuous restraint might be in order.