Hard Rock calling

Ed eats

Hard Rock Café
Bay Street
St Julian’s

Food: 6/10
Service: 9/10
Ambience: 7/10
Value: 7/10
Overall: 7/10

Being drunk in Amsterdam and having your forehead tattooed might seem like a good idea at the time. When you are sober you will thank the tattoo artist for refusing to perform his trade on a drunken client.

The flavour is all there, the bread looks quite artificial, and the Angus beef patty is a bit too lean

You will also have a forehead that aches terribly but is thankfully free from unsuitable holiday souvenirs. This is pure conjecture but I am sure it has happened to someone or other. And they put it down to an error of judgement that could have gone wrong but didn’t.

The reason this does not happen to everyone is that not everyone combines the perilous cascade of events regularly enough.

How often have you, dear reader, been on holiday in Amsterdam, in the company of people out to have fun, having consumed a drink more than the legal limit permits, and walked into a tattoo parlour? Never? I thought as much.

How often do I find myself at Bay Street on a Friday night, ravenous having eaten nothing since an early lunch, and having had a couple of beers? The odds of all this lining up is practically a thousand to one against. And as Douglas Adams would say (of odds much worse than those) this is exactly what happened.

There are a number of dining possibilities at Bay Street but the most familiar one (that had no golden arches) was Hard Rock Café. And Hard Rock was Calling.

We walked in and a couple of lovely young women almost tripped over themselves to lead us to a table. They very thoughtfully seated us at a table very close to the entrance, just beneath a Hofner bass guitar signed by Paul McCartney.

I think I glowed a little from the inside when I noticed it but no one stared at me so perhaps it was my impression.

I do not know whether the young men and women who make up the serving staff at Hard Rock Café are specifically told (and paid) to be friendly and helpful but it definitely feels like it. In their cheerful, upbeat and informal way they make us feel welcome, almost like it was their privilege to have us in there.

I also noticed that they are encouraged to express their individuality. Despite the uniforms, there seems to be no code that forces them into neat hair and covered tattoos. The result is a team of young people who are comfortable in their own skin while at work. This probably contributes to their happiness and it is as perceptible as a big hug.

One of the members of the team who seemed to be assigned to our area popped by to drop off menus and take our drinks orders. It was close enough to St Patrick’s Day for me to pick a Guinness.

Far less Paddy-friendly was the order of a Lovely Rita cocktail with tequila, Cointreau and a margarita mix. Paddy is a saint so he’ll forgive my better half, for she surely knows not what she is doing.

While we went through the menu, the TVs showed an interesting selection of music that included a live version of Hey Jude by McCartney and a number of videos of acts that performed at a previous edition of Hard Rock Calling.

The volume was just loud enough for me to enjoy the music while carry on with a conversation without having to raise my voice.

By the time I placed my order, it was time for Cocaine by Eric Clapton. Doesn’t that stuff suppress your appetite?

I picked the Big Cheeseburger with Swiss cheese, American cheese and provolone (why don’t they call it Italian Cheese?) and, at the mere hint of our waitress, added the optional Angus beef patty, which I presumed would improve the burger no end.

This was not classy enough for the cocktail-sipping company so she opted for a 21-day aged 18 oz T-bone.

Our food was served quite quickly and to the tune of the epic version of Hotel California sung live by The Eagles but by this time the TV and the music were out of sync.

As Dire Straits played the studio version of Sultans of Swing, a 1968 Elvis Presley live medley played on TV. My mind cartwheeled backwards trying to reconcile what my ears were hearing with what my eyes were seeing. I looked down at my burger for consolation.

The burger is quite huge and the salad that is normally inside sits right next to it on the plate. This is thoughtful and I know a number of people who’d be happy with this. I popped it all inside the burger, gherkin and all, and did all I could to fit as much burger into my mouth as I could achieve without having to dislocate my jaw.

The flavour is all there, the bread looks quite artificial, and the Angus beef patty is a bit too lean. So lean, in fact, that there is too little fat to keep the consistency juicy and buttery like a minced brisket would. I was paying more for a healthier, leaner patty and my taste buds were protesting.

Red, Red Wine was playing in the background now, with the volume decidedly louder than when we’d walked in. By the time I asked about the T-bone it was time for Buffalo Soldier. As I yelled for the opinion to be repeated, it was time for the obligatory Adele track to roll deep.

I received a text message from across the table. “This steak hasn’t been aged,” it stated, “and it is cut too thin to retain moisture without being overcooked.” To which I replied, “You should only order T-bone at a steak house.”

As you can see, we don’t abbreviate any words in our texts.

Then I figured out why the music had become so loud and why it had suddenly included the insufferable Katy Perry. A DJ had taken to the decks and was announcing birthdays and hen’s nights above the music.

Somehow, as loud as the music was, his voice was louder and almost painful. I don’t blame the dude for doing his job but he needs to get his levels sorted out.

I have to thank him for pointing out why, what for want of a better word we will call girls, had been strutting up and down the aisle (between tables) in little fairy wings and wearing their underwear on the outside of their clothes.

“Is someone marrying that?”, I mouthed across the table. I got the look that can only mean that I was being uncharitable, nasty, and rude. I picked ‘honest’ and pretended I had meant something else.

After a quick look at my watch and some ferreting around my head for timings I came to the conclusion that the music is cranked up at around 10 p.m. Fair enough, I figured, for a place called Hard Rock Café (Katy Perry is unacceptable though).

This would be an ideal place for two dates on the same night. One between 8 and 10 p.m. with someone whose conversation you can enjoy. The other, starting at 10, with a better looking victim but who wasn’t around when conversation skills were being handed out.

I made the mistake of voicing this observation on my way home and in the silence of my car. I had nowhere to hide.

By the time I was done with my burger I was quite enjoying the loud music (except, once again, for Katy Perry) and asked for a Key Lime Pie. This shot-glass full of goodness isn’t on the menu any more so I went for the chocolate peanut butter pie. It is also served in a shot glass and you dig through crushed and roasted peanuts to get to the hardly sweetened chocolate cream and peanut butter mix.

It is odd at first but very enjoyable once you get used to it. I didn’t manage to finish it because I’d eaten too much already and our waitress radiated genuine concern at my leaving a third of it. I promised her I wasn’t about to die of hunger.

We paid €50 for the lot – not quite fast food but not up there with proper restaurant prices either. The bill was accompanied by a feedback form that includes a gap for diners to fill in the name of the person serving them.

If this is the reason for the friendly and attentive service I am not about to complain.

You can send e-mails about this column to ed.eatson@gmail.com or follow @edeats on Twitter. Or both.