The Rusty Hubcap: A Restaurant Review
By Ridley Longsworth
If you find yourself driving down Highway 41 at three in the morning, you will eventually see the flickering green neon sign of The Rusty Hubcap. It is not a beckoning light. It is a warning. This diner does not exist to serve food so much as it exists to endure. It is a monument to the era of wood paneling, linoleum floors that are permanently tacky to the touch, and a philosophy of service that can only be described as aggressive indifference.
The moment you slide into a booth, you are greeted by a vinyl seat that has been patched with duct tape so many times it looks like a silver spiderweb. The air inside smells of two things: ancient fryer oil and a cleaning product that was probably banned in the late eighties. There is no background music. Instead, you get the rhythmic thumping of a walk-in freezer that sounds like a heartbeat and the occasional muffled argument from the kitchen about whose turn it is to “scrape the griddle.”
Our server was a woman named Barb. Barb has a haircut that defies the laws of physics and a voice like she’s been eating gravel for breakfast. She didn’t bring menus. She just stood there with a stained notepad and stared at us until the silence became unbearable. When I asked what was good, she exhaled a cloud of what I’m fairly certain was secondhand smoke and said, “The eggs don’t bounce today.” It was the most honest piece of culinary advice I have ever received.
I ordered the “Trucker’s Glory,” a plate that consisted of two eggs, three strips of bacon that looked like they had been mummified, and a pile of hash browns that were burnt on the outside and strangely liquid on the inside. The coffee was a different story entirely. It was served in a thick ceramic mug with a chip on the rim, and it was strong enough to peel paint off a car door. It didn’t taste like beans. It tasted like any dark, hot liquid that has been brewing since the interstate was paved. It was, in a very specific and terrifying way, exactly what I needed.
My companion ordered the “Famous Chili.” This was a mistake. The chili arrived in a bowl that was uncomfortably hot, while the contents remained lukewarm. It was a dark brown sludge that seemed to move of its own volition. There were beans in there, sure, but there were also unidentified chunks of “meat” that had the texture of a pencil eraser. Barb watched them take the first bite with a look of grim satisfaction, like a scientist observing a lab rat enter a maze.
The strange thing about The Rusty Hubcap is that it isn’t bad in a way that makes you want to leave. It is bad in a way that feels authentic. In a world of polished, corporate coffee chains and pre-packaged sandwiches, there is something oddly comforting about a place that refuses to improve. It doesn’t care about your Yelp review. It doesn’t care about your dietary restrictions. It barely cares if you survive the meal.
We left with a lingering case of heartburn and a bill that was written on the back of a napkin. The Rusty Hubcap is a terrible restaurant, but it is a magnificent experience. It is the kind of place you go when you want to feel like a character in a gritty road movie where nothing ends well. Go for the coffee, stay for the existential dread, and definitely bring some Tums. Rating: 2.5/5 Stars
This piece is part of my satirical “Restaurant Review” series. You can also read my reviews of Aperture & Void and The Fern and Fable (both fictional establishments, just like The Rusty Hubcap). Any resemblance to actual restaurants is purely coincidental.
