Rhinehart's Review

   Here's something that most non-native Augusta residents will immediately recognize as fact: nostalgia and provincial inexperience prop up a good handful of old, really outdated restaurants in Augusta that would have otherwise gone the way of the Do-Do in other, more modernized cities because a large majority of their clientele has grown up in (and possibly never left) the Augusta area. Obviously, I realize that not ALL natives fall into this category, but enough do that I feel justified in saying so. The bottom line is that non-natives (hereafter referred to as "aliens) are forced to settle for food from relatively low-standard establishments due to local hype derived from decades of thoughtless patronage. IMO, this is one of such places.

    Now, that said, I firmly believe that every establishment gets a mulligan. Everyone deserves a second chance in the event of the inevitable, odd bad day. Thusly, I have been to the Belair location twice on the advice that it was less "divey." How that is possible, I'm not entirely sure, unless I compare it to the Mos Eisley Cantina. I cannot speak for the Washington Rd. location, as I am not willing to further subject myself to this restaurant.

    Where to start? Perhaps it's the stone-age era, completely chaotic and disorganized parking lot. Perhaps it is the lazy, dirty, gulag-style ambience of the interior...if it can be called  an "interior," since I feel like I'm attempting to dine in an alley in downtown Detroit, or a shelled out building in Fallujah. Seriously, I can't decide if the decor more closely resembles a former-Soviet prison or a re-purposed lavatory at a dilapidated college baseball stadium. There is "writing," more akin to trashy graffiti on LITERALLY every surface. There is no difference between their actual restroom and the dining space, save for a dirty toilets stuck inside one of them, and I'm not telling you which one it is. Bare cinder block walls and awkward picnic table seating helps complete that symphony of "couldn't care any less if you paid me to...and you are paying me to." Greasy, sticky, wooden tables. Gum. Stuck. To. Everything.

    Granted, all of this would be more acceptable if I could believe that they were angling for that college party kind of vibe, catering to beer guzzling frat brahs and sorority bimbos on the weekend, which they partially do. But here's the thing; they don't even have beer on tap. But you can buy classy buckets of domestic swill, most likely. Yet despite appearances, the place is packed constantly, by brahs and grandma's alike (although the degradation of the palate with drunkenness and age is verifiable, so I concede they at least have an excuse). Even the radio ad for this place is gross; the narrator sounds half-wasted and clearly has a sinus condition. I thought that this had shaken my faith in the local populace, but then again, after my first glance at the traffic behavior in the Augusta area I realized my expectations were never really very high. But I digress.

    Onward, to the food. The famous shrimp. Yeah, it's fried shrimp, alright...in very dated cornmeal batter that went out of style in 1987 and which drips with grease from every nook and cranny. And if that's your thing, chive on down that oily road to an early heart attack; it's none of my business. Now, onto the fish. I once ordered their "blackened" fish, which was somehow inexplicably even more greasy than my wife's fried entree! What the what?!? It was mushy, overcooked, and possessed none of the qualities of a properly-blackened fish filet. And that brings us to the oysters. I refuse to eat them, and I'll tell you why. It's because I have laid mine horrified little eyes upon the ghastly interior of the restaurant, felt my hands stick to the tack of the uncleaned tables... and I would rather tap dance through a minefield with snow shoes on. I figure my odds of survival favor the mines. I'm sorry, but I just can't justify spending my hard-earned money at a joint whose motto is "Rhinehart's: Beyond Casual" while serving foods that can no-shit kill you D-E-D dead. I don't want foods like that to be handled in any manner close to even regular casual.

    In that same way that some folks have a face only a mother could love, only locals or those never exposed to good, modernized seafood (or perhaps to restaurants that can't be cleaned on the inside with a pressure washer and a sand blaster without an insurance settlement) could love Rhinehart's