If you like good food, good fun, and a whole lot of…crazy crap on the walls ... Friday's promises an exhausting stroll down memory lane. Problem is, it's someone else's grandma's memories and the foreign nostalgia just doesn't translate. Tell that to the ripped black lace-legged gothic lolita waitstaff, hustling big smiles in front of pictures of Joe Dimaggio, Fats Domino, and Groucho Marx . The main problem (besides the shitty food) is that they are sincere. They really are happy to have a job at T.G.I.F., and don't quite understand why you, the victim of this cliché melee, aren't just Happy, OKAY?
The bathroom is lilliputianesque, yet one is never bereft of 1920s kitsch curios. Clarinet while you piss, cigarette ad with your shit? Alas, the spell is broken by an attendant roster, clinging to the door, harboring names scribbled in indecipherable glyphs. Disenfranchised Chinese railroad workers are rolling over in forgotten, unswept tombs, dancing with irony in the devil's dollhouse of Coca-colonialism. On a Friday.