You can smell the grease from two blocks away. There’s no escaping it. It’s omnipresent. It’s all encompassing. The irony is, of course, that Popeye was a character specifically conjured by adults to teach kids that eating your vegetables can lead to strength and vitality, and thus the ability to land a piece of ass like Olive Oil. I certainly don’t think this is what they had in mind. After all, we dare you to find something on the menu that isn’t deep-fried or smothered in gravy. The average Popeye’s customer weighs in at a deuce/deuce-and-a-half, has a shiny chin, a wonky eye or two and a penchant for patronizing brightly lit, filthy restaurants (so if you see someone fitting this description on the street, please call the authorities, and whatever you do, don’t feed them anything green.) The saddest thing about Popeye’s is the emaciated chicken hidden under the miles of batter. In the age of hormones and robust free-range poultry, Popeye’s seems to only get the runts of the litter. Withered is the only word that comes to mind. Why not save your pennies and go to the market and buy a nice, juicy rotisserie clucker for yourself? [MF]
722 7th Ave.