In this occasional series, Teresa Lensch provides a woman's view of area "breastaurants." She previously filed dispatches from Tilted Kilt, Twin Peaks and Wild Pitch.
I have not been to one breastaurant™, despite my previous three dispatches. Nope. Not one of those places was an actual breastaurant™. There is only one in America. Just. One. Breastaurant™. And that's Bikini's Sports Bar & Grill: The CEO filed and received a registered trademark on the term in 2013. Maybe I should have mentioned that earlier?
It's a stormy Sunday afternoon and we make the drive through flooding streets and dumb Interstate 35 traffic to the one and only American breastaurant™. It's gonna be so worth it. I'm psyched. In the old "restaurant row" at Northwest Highway and I-35, we dodge rain pellets and go inside. We are at THE breastaurant™! In fact, it seems that we're the only ones at the breastaurant™. Nobody else is here.
Four cars in the parking lot must belong to the cook, the waitress, the bartender and the hostess. Speaking of the hostess, she's wearing a black pleather bikini top and cut-off shorts. She sort of looks like that one biker chick that crashed Wyatt's party in Weird Science. She scares me.
Setting a napkin down in front of us, the bartender introduces herself and asks for our names. She writes them down on a napkin, spelling mine T-R-E-A-S ...
"A," I tell her. "You can just write 'A.'"
She's got on a different bikini top and cut-off shorts, and I have to mention there are no push-up bras here. Of course, there are also no customers here. The bartender makes me think of the women who hang out at Lake Lewisville, especially since she treats us as if we're her neighbors, stopping by after a long day doing keg stands and jet-skiing.
Man, it is really empty in here. And the space is huge so it feels even more awkward sitting there making conversation, just the three of us. Look, the hostess has her own stuff to do, OK?
We order a couple of "Big Daddy" beers, some fried mac and cheese balls and a patty melt to split. Average sports bar grub. A weave-sporting waitress slowly drags in for her shift, and sits down in front of the hostess to catch up on stuff. What the hell. It's not like there are any customers to wait on. While we eat, our poor, bored waitress carves a pattern between looking up at the TV, then walking back to the kitchen, then back to us to continue our cozy chat.
Not seeing anyone else for the length of our visit at "America's Only Breastaurant™", I can't tell you who hangs out there. I don't know. I'm so sorry. Here, let me try. There are a lot of nice big screens, so probably sports fans? The décor is modern and clean, and I like the tables ... so ... interior decorators? Bikini's: The Official Bar of Vaguely Horny Sports-Loving Interior Designers. Could be.
According to the bartender, the place is packed and crazy during games. And she thinks one of the Cowboys came in once and is a horrible tipper. (You know who you are!) So what if there was no fun people-watching to be had? So what if instead of making small talk with tables of new people, I had to talk to my husband and our bartender about bedazzled boots and "skanky" places for an hour? So what if the hostess scared me? I dined at the only breastaurant™ in America! Check.
