Lunch special: Burger, fries and a drink for $7.85
People in line in front of me: 15
Number of french fries in one order of french fries: 572
A fan of Mooyah recommended that I test it out, so with high expectations, I did. Almost completely distracted by the fact that this place is tricked out just like the Mooby's from Dogma and in concept is a total rip-off of In-N-Out Burger, I ordered a Mooyah burger, "Mooyah style" (cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, grilled onions and special sauce). I added fries and a drink and my total was $7.85. So far, so good.
The burger was nothing spectacular, but it was cool that you can pick from a long list of ingredients including jalapeños and buffalo sauce and they'll make the burger just how you want it. It was made fresh; it was cooked right—not too greasy, not dry. The burger buns were sweet and yummy.
But none of that mattered: The ambiance of this place totally killed it for me. Every time I took a bite of my burger, it mooed. And that scared the fuck out of me. Every time I'd take a bite, the lady behind the counter would call out another person's order, "Sally, your Mooyah's ready." And her timing was perfect. I'd bite in every time she mooed. Not appetizing. And completely not her fault—she clearly hated the fact that she had to say "Mooyah" five mazillion times a day.
The idiot who named this place really bombed. I wish I'd seen the list he picked from ("OK, so the top four are Dead Cow Meat Huzzah, Fat Fuck Burger Woohoo, Applebee's and Mooyah"). Or at least I wish I could have been there for that moment when his crappy friends (they'd have to be crappy friends to not put up the "You're an ass hat" flag at this point) smiled in his face and said nothing when he told them that he was naming his burger place Mooyah. Mooyah sounds like an STD you get from raping one of the old chicks in the ya-ya sisterhood. It sounds like something that you've got on your face. "There's Mooyah in your eyebrow." And mostly, it sounds like "booyah," which is a word that I really pray does not find its way back into plaid Polo shorts-wearing, Xanax-popping nutbag vocabulary.
Oh, and the fries sucked.
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