We could stand no longer the piercing reality that we were frightened by an absurd piece of architecture. We could no longer allow this pitiful franchise mishap to besmear our weekly sojourn to places of higher gastronomic utility.
Last semester, as you probably do not recall, we attempted to round out our culi-literary decathlon by visiting this dubious establishment. However, despite the heroic resolve with which we approached this onerous commission, we ultimately proved unable to overcome our sophomoric fears and ended up dashing next door into Nogi's to hide behind a friendly platter of sushi.
Needless to say, many of our readers were pointedly disappointed with our lack of professional perseverance. This week, 24,000 dollars poorer but one semester wiser, we decided to overcome the stigma of this ridiculous Achilles' heel and just go eat some shrimp in the damn boat.
Inverted cruxifi and bleeding walls aside, there really was nothing especially preternatural about the place. That is, of course, unless you count the mildly demonic painting of Sailor Buck Satan on the aft wall. Come to think of it, his eyes did sort of follow you through the room with an eerie red luminescence...
And now that we really think hard about it, the waitress a few tables over was performing a savagely unholy jig replete with indecipherable incantations and simulated self-mutilation. Or maybe she was just listing the daily specials. We may have heard Stigmata Matzoball Soup on that list. Such heart-warming ambiance for a family restaurant.
Malevolent as the atmosphere was, the Schrimp Haus Intelligensia had clearly made every effort to create a soothing environment for industrious Claremont families. Evidence of this can be found on the cover of the menu, where this fine establishment philanthropically proclaims itself "The Housewife's Lifesaver." God Bless Das Schrimp Haus -- now we know where we'll go when the little ladies deserve breaks.
(Just in order to preserve what precious little social life he may have, Ryan wishes to emphasize the facetious nature of the previous comment.)
We were, of course, disturbed to find that our custom-issue red vinyl seating apparati could not be inverted and used as personal floatation devices in the event of pirate attack. We also noticed a mysterious spatial discrepancy between the forebodingly large external appearance of the ship and its rather confining interior dining area. One might be naively inclined to suggest that the extra space is nothing more than the kitchen or bulk shrimp refrigeration quarters, but we know it's really the Conspiracy's local operating headquarters. It takes a lot more than architectural distraction to fool us.
The food, to put it blandly, was bad. Imagine taking every potentially edible creature from your favorite body of water, breading the bloody life out of it, and immersing it in a boiling vat of Mazola, glibly singing the theme song to "Free Willy" all the while. Ryan decided upon the obvious "six big shrimp" dish, while Andy, more courageously, ordered the "Shrimp House Special."
Let it suffice to say that the Shrimp House failed to make amends for its catastrophic architecture in the form of superior cuisine. In fact, we'd rather stand outside soaking up the majesty of the twin smokestacks towering overhead than sit inside and soak up their bland yet fattening culinary drivel.
The most disturbing discovery of the evening, however, was not the total disregard for passenger safety, nor the faint yet unmistakable background sound of a thousand schlucking octopii. Instead, the most unsettling product of the evening turned out to be the realization that evil is by no means singular in this twisted world. Much to our chagrin, we learned that there are two more Schrimp Hauser cruising the asphalt seas surrounding Claremont. Indeed, it is a chain.
Despite having survived this encounter unscarred and, for the most part, gastrointestinally stable, in a sense we feel beaten. The literary consummation of the final Beggar's Banquet has ultimately revealed nothing more than the pathetic defeat of the human spirit. Humanity should feel ashamed for allowing Rush Limbaugh to stay in the ratings, tabloids to keep subscribers, and the Shrimp House to stay in business.
And they breed, like rats.
If you don't know where the Shrimp House is you seriously need to get out more often. But when you do, don't go there. We recommend Nirvana or Chicken Tandoori for Indian food, Tropical Mexico for Mexican, Kishi for Japanese, and the dining halls to cut your losses for anything else. Farewell, and sayonara.