A Woman's View of Twin Peaks

A Woman's View of Twin Peaks
Teresa Lensch

Twin Peaks, nestled at Gaylord and Preston in Frisco, is a place I have driven past hundreds of times -- it stands between me and my beloved local Starbucks -- but whose threshold I have never breached. I decided to go, and to report back, in case a fellow woman is ever faced with entering such a place and wants to know: Just how grossed out will I be?

It's a Wednesday evening, happy hour, when I make my voyage. Immediately I notice a petite waitress casually lounging around with a group of male customers at their table, giggling and smiling. Then I notice another petite waitress. Casually lounging around with a group of her male customers at their table. Giggling and smiling. Lots of sitting, giggling and smiling -- so friendly here!

My husband and I sidle up to the bar and are served right away by a tall flat-stomached twentysomething with a belly button ring and bright red lipstick. (My husband kindly points these details out to me.) The uniforms are all about the belly and the boobs, khaki hip-hugger short shorts and midriff-baring flannel shirts perfect for pushing everything up, up, up. Tall socks and hiking boots complete the ensemble.

As we wait, "we" notice another bartender obligingly jumping up and down for her customer further down the bar, before leaning wayyyy over to retrieve his empty beer mug. A little icky, but I can deal with it. Looking around, I see a good mix at the tables. One or two couples with their babies, a few people on dates, two guys having some wings, and many groups of manly men.

Luckily for us there is a $3 Jose Cuervo special so we order up two shots and are delighted when they were served to us in frozen glasses (their beers are also served below 32 degrees). Smoooooth.

There are some healthy options on the menu, like grilled fish, soups and salads. But to me, those items are like Antarctica: I know they exist, but I am not going there. We order the queso and chips and split a Philly cheesesteak sandwich with "fire fries." The queso is spicy and creamy, with some chili and chipotle peppers. Even good enough to make up for the kinda stale chips.

The Philly is fresh but bland. Being the enterprising problem-solvers we are, we dip our sandwiches INTO THE QUESO. Problem solved. Our fries are thick with a little pepper spice, which I guess is the "fire" part. Not really spicy until we dip them ... into the queso. Quesssooooooo.

The service is top-notch. Our glasses stay filled, the bartender checks on us without shamelessly flirting with my date, and the check comes quickly when we are ready to go. We have a smoke on the welcoming patio, which has fans and a fireplace for cold nights. The bathrooms are clean and roomy.

If you're comfortable taking your date to a Cowboys game, you'll be just fine here. The uniforms are similar to those of our beloved city's cheerleaders, only flannel and khaki in place of polyester (so much more breathable!). You won't get boobs in your face unless you want them. This is a nice spot. For tequila and queso.

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