You know what kind of restaurant I’d like to see open here in my home town of Jersey City, NJ?

One exactly like the ones my parents would drag me to as a little kid back in the ’70s/’80s growing up in the suburbs.  Exactly like one, EXACTLY.

A completely cheesy American-Continental restaurant.

Shrimp cocktail, clams casino, nearly wilted salad with ranch dressing, nearly stale dinner rolls (served in a basket wrapped in a warm cloth napkin with individually wrapped pats of butter that are half frozen and can’t get a knife through so you just insert the whole damn thing, maybe two, inside the roll via a slit you cut in it with your steak knife) prime rib, sirloin steaks, huge baked potato (wrapped in tin foil of course) with sour cream and chives, French onion soup (oh so exotic), lobster tail, surf-n-turf for two, etc.

And the help must be period perfect: big sideburns, feathered hair, jumpsuits, leisure suits, etc.  Bellbottoms.  All the help wears necklaces, female and male.

At 10:30pm a cover band comes on and plays Three Dog Night, Kris Kristofferson, and instrumental versions of Bee Gees songs quietly in the corner.  You dance between entree and desert.

To perfect it, you’d be drunk driven home in a ’72 Buick 352 V8 LeSabre with a Landua roof.  One with a timing problem and needing an oil change.

Now that would a culinary experience!

Too much pizza and Asian fusion ’round here anyway.