Sweet Fire & Ice

Last night, I dined with friends at Al Copeland’s Sweet Fire & Ice.
The name of the place, coupled with the fact that it is located in Metairie should have tipped me off.

Let me get this out of the way first: the food was splendiferous. If you go, get the Santa Fe Eggrolls and the chocolate cake.
Fuckin yum.

And now the fun part.
Let me describe the group:
Myself, not one, not two, but three self described (and rightly so) large-breasted and tattooed women, a large and well-tattoed member of the New Orleans SWAT Team, and a a rather normal looking guy in a faux-hawk.

Lemme tell you, SF&I tries waaaay too hard. You’re not a swanky hipster bar downtown. You’re a fucking Copeland’s restaurant in Metairie.
Oxygen bars and Martini bars are not cool. Howsabout a Apple Pucker Douchebag Martini, you sanctimonious trendy hollow piece of wannabe socialite ass-sucking shit? You’re in Metairie, not NY or LA, asshole. The sooner you realize that, the better off you are.
Techno/Dance remixes of the Eurythmics’ Sweet Dreams is not cool, especially at the volume you played it. Fire your DJ. The music sounds like soft-core porn music on a sailboat. Why a boat?
I don’t have a fucking clue. It doesn’t fit, and neither does your music.

I’m having trouble grasping the fact that people still stare at guys with long hair, girls with tattoos.
This is NOLA. Er, sorry, that was Metairie.
But still…

Mr. Copeland, please. You want a swanky nightclub? Fine, knock yourself out. You want another restaurant? Go right ahead.
But please, please, please, don’t mix the two. Instead of a strong single product, you have a weak mix of two.

Anyways, if they do take-out, then get it. Otherwise, it’s just not worth it.
Damn, this is making me hungry. Good thing I have leftovers.