Of The Galleria, Trendy Restaurants, And Half-Naked Women
By
Leonard Zwelling
On the evening of July 4th, we had no plans at all. I did a little searching via Google and found a near-by restaurant that we had never tried called Joey Uptown. The menu looked promising so we went.
Joey Uptown inhabits the rectangular building that sits on the Westheimer side of The Galleria in what used to be a free parking lot. This is now a pay parking lot or, if you want to valet park that will be $12 plus tip, and if you want VIP valet parking (I think that puts your vehicle right in front of the restaurant), it costs $30 plus tip.
I refuse to valet park next to a mall filled with free parking spaces. Going below street level and winding around corners got us to a free space. A quick walk through the Galleria ice rink level, up a flight of stairs, and out an exit got us through the VIP-parked cars. We dodged incoming vehicles and entered Joey Uptown.
This space used to be a very chic Japanese restaurant that we actually dined with the Pisters once many years ago. I guess that place went out of business.
As soon as we walked into the new space, I knew I had chosen poorly. It was loud, young, and filled with under-dressed soccer fans. And when I say under-dressed, I mean the men were in shorts and tee shirts and the women were damned-near bare-chested. I am not sure when flouting an unclad pair of breasts became a fashion statement in this country, but clearly, at Joey Uptown, it appeared to be expected. I cared for clinics filled with breast cancer patients and never saw as many uncovered torsos in so little time. And, oh yes, most of the women should have looked in the mirror before going out. To put it bluntly, their choices of outfits (or lack thereof) were not flattering.
This restaurant also gave off a supremely corporate vibe in that everything seemed to be designed by AI and under tight control. The waiter who took our order was dressed entirely in black as were all of the servers. From the neck down, they looked like clones. It was evident that once our order went in, the wheels in the kitchen began to turn, and they turned slowly. Eventually our food came and while a bit bizarre (steak slathered in ponzu sauce—meat that resisted being cut and which could not be wrestled to a draw with chop sticks) and “sushi” with baked rice and very little fish. It was all over-seasoned.
We called for the bill. The original server arrived with his trusty credit card machine demanding at least an 18% tip. I waited for the requested receipt, until I had had enough and just left without it. The waiter disappeared into the conveyor belt of the ebon clothed servers.
If this is what going out to dinner in Houston has devolved to, it is little surprise that Door Dash and Uber Eats are so popular. This is a tacky restaurant, with tacky service, and a really tacky crowd that was very heterogeneous in terms of its ethnic mix, but very uniform in its lack of sophistication, taste, and modesty.
I have frequently written about how I do not understand tattoos and piercings. I really do not understand marching around in public half-naked and thinking this is sexy either. It’s not. And it especially isn’t when the choices people are making in how they present themselves actually makes them look less attractive than they could be.
The great Lewis Black described the dress Janet Jackson wore during her Super Bowl “malfunction” as one suggesting that she had no friends. Someone should have told her to look in the mirror. This restaurant was filled with amateur Janet Jacksons. One Janet Jackson is enough. Next time I want to go out for a meal, I will go to Mia’s Table in Bellaire. It is super casual. The fish tacos are sensational. And everyone is fully clothed.
