Below is part of the review I wrote on the Green Room for the November issue of D Magazine. Since this was written, I’ve read a few other critics’ opinions of the restaurant. No matter how much I read–good or bad—I still don’t hear much buzz on the place. And you? What do you think? Grab a Snuggie and read the day away.
I was skeptical when I heard the Green Room was reopening. For me, the restaurant was a sexy, lovable place that ran on spontaneity and free spirit. Each meal I shared with family and friends was magical. Customers entered the grungy-from-the-outside spot with low expectations and emerged like religious converts. I can’t think of another restaurant in Dallas that gripped the souls of Dallas diners like the Green Room did. But I don’t care how many times you click your heels together; you can never go home.
So, there I was, sitting in the new Green Room, scrutinizing every inch with a scowl. “Those hand-carved guitars were not there before,” I said to my friends. “And the kitchen window is bigger. Those florescent lights are horrible. It’s supposed to be dark in here.” Yes, the chandeliers made from cymbals hang overhead, but the hundreds of plates and guitars autographed by famous clientele are gone.
One look around revealed I wasn’t the only aging Green Room groupie who had returned. Gray-haired fiftysomethings filled the room. I covered my face with my hands when a group of women in their late 20s wearing shorts and high-heeled sandals click-clacked across the cement floor and took 10 minutes to stow their expensive handbags and get settled at their table. In my foul mood, I figured the old people only wanted to relive the past, and the young ones were too young to appreciate how short of my memories this new place would fall. “Serve them the Gag Me,” I snarled.
Read the whole thing.
