Eddie Rockets is a lie

There’s a chain in Dublin called Eddie Rockets, which is a carbon copy of Johnny Rockets. Or so we thought. It’s also naïve to think that American food is so straightforward that it’s impossible to mess up.

Bridget and I went to Eddie Rockets around 10:30pm, on our way home from going to the opening show of the Fringe festival (a week long indie theatre festival type thing). We decided some American comfort food would be just the thing, and ordered chicken tenders and milkshakes. Right off the bat, the waitress refuses to replace the soda in the chicken tender meal deal with a milkshake and just charge us a little bit extra, we had to order the milkshakes separately. Neither of us wanted a soda, but eventually I let her bring us a sparkling (not flat, she didn't offer that) water because it seemed like that would make her happy. Bridget and appreciate the sassy décor (If you’re not served in 5 minutes… you’ll be served in 6 or 8 or maybe 12 minutes… RELAX!) but realized something was wrong as we listened to the music they were playing. First off you must know that the people of Ireland seem to love the movie Grease. The soundtrack can be heard anywhere, from pizza parlours to shopping centres to public buses. But not, it turns out, in imitation ‘50s diners. Instead we got recognizable ‘50s music, which all seemed to be sung by the wrong performer.

Bridget and I get our milkshakes: chocolate and Oreo. The Oreo doesn’t taste right, and the milkshakes are sub-par at best. How difficult can it be to make a chocolate milkshake? They came in small glasses with a metal cup containing the rest of the shake. But no spoons. And there aren’t spoons with the rest of our silverware. So we ask the waitress for spoons, and she obliges, but not before giving us a bewildered look. “What on earth could they want spoons for? Certainly not to eat their partially solid beverage?” Then we get our chicken tenders. Three tiny little tenders that have been fried and breaded differently than they would be in the States. And they’re not made out of bits of chicken parts, as fried fast-food chicken ought to be. It’s real chicken. Like I might make at home. Not that it tasted bad, it was just unexpected.

The fries, however, were the worst part. And they weren’t chips, they were meant to be American-style fries. They were covered in some kind of garlic-y seasoning, and we were given as a dipping sauce not ranch, but “garlic mayo.” The weirdest part, though, was the fries’ flavor. They didn’t taste remotely like fish, but somehow they tasted like some kind of seasoning or sauce that one would associate with fish.

The entire ordeal was like being in an episode of The Twilight Zone! Everything seemed to be normal, and then when you looked closer it was just different enough to really freak you out. I’m in a place where I speak the language, and everything looks like home, but everything is just, somehow subtly different. Especially when it comes to food. First “American style pancakes,” now this. I have another post coming soon about going to the grocery store. Most of my culture shock has involved food in one way or another.

All I have to say is: Where are we?!?