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Monday, August 22, 2005

TGI Friday's Bar Review

When looking to sling back a cold one, there's no better place in San Diego than the ultimate in corporate, homogenized dining; TGI Friday's. Mock it for the over the top kitsch. Ridicule the frat in the corner celebrating Chad or Chip or Conner's birthday, washing down their Chicken Poppers with long islands. TGI Friday's has one thing unrivaled by any other San Diego watering hole. Secretaries. Oodles of them. Fellas, you're not going to find any 'girls nights out' at that hip North Park or PB hole in the wall you enjoy.

Only two groups of women frequent TGI Friday's. One—the secretaries—are no longer able to respectably hit up the joints of their youth. Solidly 30-ish, the female equivalents of rent-a-car regional managers are Friday's bread and butter. They're drinking Lemon Drops with a side car of desperation. The second group is the bachelorette party for the terribly uncreative and inexperienced. They could have gone to Chip 'n' Dales, but these girls chose to consume oversized margaritas to show they're "having a good time". They're either Mormon or terrible planners—hope for the latter.

Sure, you have to deal with the throng of middle managers in town from Dallas driving up in their Dodge Stratus, attempting to take that always-the-bridesmaid-never-the-bride back to their respective Radisson love-nests. But in the end, the kids are fun and the forced happiness of Fridays (that's a fake bison's head on the wall—aren't we WACKY!) will almost make you believe you're enjoying yourself.