As I walked into Le Château de Featur, I felt an intense wave of nostalgia; I felt like I was back home at the ‘ol family shanty. An old rusted car, plastic pink flamingoes and a television with a shattered screen were all scattered near the entrance of the restaurant. Inside, an aroma of sour milk, cigarettes and cat urine permeated the air. Professional bowling played on two screens and a “Big Mouth Billy Bass” singing “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” was hung on every wall. At the bar, a group of six or seven alcoholics smashed bottles over each others’ heads, while the bartender organized bets over who would be the last man standing to the pleasure of dozens of cheering bystanders. Ahh, family reunions. Anyway, the hostess, a pregnant 42-year-old woman with five missing teeth named Hope, gave me a table (a piece of plywood over a stack of cinderblocks). As I sat, I flipped through the menu, noticing such intriguing offerings as “Le Petit Gourmet Hot Dog” and “Jalapeño Poppers.” Before long, my waiter, Junior, came to my table to take my order. I asked him if the beef was fresh, and after Junior told me the cow had been run over with his pick-up this morning, I was sold on the medium-rare 12 oz. Le Petit Sirloin. As I waited an hour for my food to come, I managed to keep myself occupied with the kids’ menu that Junior forgot to take from the table. It had a word scramble that legitimately stumped me. Here was one of the tougher clues: “This animal says ‘Meow,’” ATC: _ _ _. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure that out. Maybe it was a tac? Or an act? An act is an animal, isn’t it? Shucks. I’ll get it. Finally, my steak came. Unfortunately, it didn’t look quite as good as I’d hoped. I cut into it, and it was black to its core. None of it resembled any form of food I had seen before. I tasted it, and it actually tasted like raw stallion. And I know what that statement implies, and I know it’s “shocking,” but if you went through what me and my friend Otis went through back in ‘84, I think you’d understand. I guess what I’m trying to say is that drugs are really bad; they screw you up and make you someone else. And I guess when you get into them, your life just spirals out of control and you’ll do anything to get them. It was after a George Michael concert, and we met a couple of shady characters at the Texaco station, and, I don’t know… you know what? I’m rambling, I’m going to get back to the point. I hailed down Junior and asked him to take the steak back to the kitchen and make a new one. Begrudgingly, he cooperated, and five minutes later, he came back with what looked like the same steak, except with a garnish of small, white flakes. I didn’t want to ask any more questions; I’d already been enough trouble, and Junior was playing with his switchblade at my table. I thanked him and tried the steak again. It wasn’t too bad; I’d call it an improvement over the first one. It was funny though; that garnish tasted an awful lot like dandruff. Weird. Overall, I’d say if you don’t mind vomiting blood or breaking out in mysterious boils in the week after enjoying Le Château de Featur’s food, it is an excellent option for family dining or enjoying a romantic evening out. I would recommend it to two groups of people: those who are starving, and people who desperately wish to shorten their life expectancy.
