Fatman and Red Robbin, Warwick, RI, June 2011

I was really excited on the 4th of July. It wasn't because the Yanks were celebrating Independence from the greatest country on earth. I was excited because after being spurned a couple of weeks back like Cheryl Cole by US TV network we were heading back for take two of Red Robbin. The Latino told me that the burgers here were as good as Alexi Sanchez with a football.

As usual, being in Warwick messes with my internal compass. Not even Christopher Columbus would have been able to navigate in Warwick. I know how Siobhan Watson felt like after her huge boozy hen night every time I am in that neck of the woods.

Stepping inside was like being flashed by Jason's technicolour dreamcoat. I immediately felt a wave of happiness wash over me like a Phoenix dust storm. Our wait for a table was meant to be 10 min but after 10 seconds, our names were announced on the tannoy and our table was prepared. After perusing the extensive menu of bog standard American staple, I decided to engage in a bit of banter with our waiter. However, Chris was one miserable bastard. He must have been working as a no-win-no-fee associate with Cyrus R. Vance Jr. on the Strauss-Khan case recently because he was more pissed off than a Gooner in the summer transfer market. Cheer up, me old bean. Could be worse. You could be Rio Ferdinand being interviewed on Piers Morgan Tonight. Anyway, coupled with Chris' apathy that stank like a NOTW phone tap the burger was, quite frankly, disappointing. This was the David Haye of burgers - with all the pre-gluttony hype it was toe-tally disappointing. It was the same old story. Berlosconi gets hit by yet another sex scandal; I get hit by another plastic bit of meat.

There was not even any comedy or banter so I had to salvage the blogcast with some random repartee between my good self and the Latino.

The Ho Down says: Red Robbin? More like Red Faced.