Land of the Rising Fun, Fun, Fun
|Piranha’s Killer Sushi
851 NE Green Oaks Blvd
2501 E Lamar Blvd
859 NE Green Oaks Blvd
A D V E R T I S E M E N T
A D V E R T I S E M E N T
Last Call rarely stumbles outside of Fort Worth proper, which is tough because Better Half likes to go all over the place, including (gag) Dallas and (yawn) Arlington. One night this past week, Better Half told Last Call of an amazing drink special at an A-town joint, “buy one, get 10 — count ‘em, 10 — free!” With tongue hanging out the car window, Last Call hauled ass with Better Half to Piranha’s Killer Sushi (851 NE Green Oaks Blvd) for the free booze bath, and ...
It was all a ruse by Better Half to get your columnist out of Cowtown. (The nerve.) But Better Half did have homesickness remedies on hand quicker than you can tell me, “Here, you drunken piece of shit” — sake, beer, more sake. God bless true love.
From a table with a view of the parking lot, Last Call and its sneaky lover turned Japanese: Better Half filled up on tuna rolls the circumference of shot glasses, while yours truly gulped sake and Sapporo like a Pepto-MOM milkshake. Everything at Piranha’s was great, though the night was not without its “moment,” when a guy from the tanning salon next door tried to tighten the belt on his porn budget and was duly placed in the backseat of a squad car. What? Yeah, he allegedly tried to take a photograph of a naked female customer while she wasn’t looking. (Amateur.)
“It was some Hooter’s girl,” Piranha’s DJ Perkins said. “Supposedly, he peeked over the wall [of the tanning booth] to snap a picture and got busted.”
But things were going so, a-hem, swimmingly that Better Half and Last Call decided to check out the rest of Arlington, starting two doors down with My Martini (859 NE Green Oaks Blvd). BTW, don’t chase a vodka orange martini with a few sample shots of the new “It” vodka, Level. It tastes much better on tv commercials than in person.
Digging its elbows into the granite-ish bar, Last Call had a pointless though nonetheless entertaining conversation with My Martini chef/resident comedian Larry, a small, compact guy who couldn’t keep the scatalogical humor at bay. His prancing and punch lines didn’t let up, but the welcome had been worn out after Last Call’s party foul — requesting the bar mats and an empty pint glass. You can take the man outta Fort Worth, but ...
Time for another stop. The place? Manhattan’s (2501 E Lamar Blvd). With a name like that, the joint is bound to be jumpin’, right? Wrong. Now, don’t misunderstand me: Last Call likes the idea of just waitresses and dark lighting all around, but this was ridiculous.
Four rounds, two hours, and an ass-dragging bartender later, though, a crowd did finally surface. Off-the-clock professionals, Kawasaki biker boys, and driveway-basketball MVP’s, all ordering suds. And right across the street from Six Flags Over Texas, no less. You could only imagine lunch time here, when the place runneth over in worn-out parents whose teens and tweens waste their days on the Batman ride. Pshaw. At their age, Last Call worked for a living. At a tanning salon.
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