I’m putting together this #BecauseGluten column in one of my new favorite writing spots: Red Robin at St. Petersburg mall Tyrone Square. It doesn’t have Wi-Fi, so I have to use my phone as a hotspot, and the bar tables are really too small for a laptop and a meal, so I get more than my share of mayo on my MacBook Pro.
No local roots, no internet and no table real estate. Why is this one of my favorites again?
Because it has the best gluten-free hamburger buns I’ve ever tasted.
Now, I could wax poetic about the buns that taste like and, more importantly, have the mouth feel of real burger buns in all of their glutinous glory, but that really isn’t the point. The point is that I don’t love chain restaurants. However, when it comes to gluten-free protocols, which are crucial to my apparently delicate celiac digestive system, chains are typically head and shoulders — or is that grilled cheese and hamburgers? — above the rest.
I’ve never liked chain restaurants. Well, OK, that’s not true. From age 17 until the day it closed, I had an affair to rival the ages with Bennigan’s (RIP) broccoli bites (dipped in sour cream) and Monte Cristo (not dipped in raspberry). Also, my go-to meal after every one of my small-town council meeting reporting days was a large order of Mickey D’s fries with either a Big Mac or a hamburger and cheeseburger. If you’ve ever sat through almost 14 years of council meetings, you’ll congratulate me on my go-to not being Ripple and heroin.
But beyond that, give me O’Maddy’s Bar & Grille over Ruby Tuesday’s, Paulo’s Pizza over Pizza Hut, and PJ’s Oyster Bar over Red Lobster any day of the week.
This is what makes celiac so problematic for me. Historically, chain restaurants cook with more salt than I care for, and I’m loathe to see my money leave town. But, damn, these chains and franchises have the protocols down. I’ve had bad gluten-free meals at chain restaurants (Pizza Hut, we need to talk about your gluten-free crust, because I’ve accidentally eaten cardboard that tastes better), yet never have they made me sick.
I get it, mom-and-pop eateries. I do — and I’ve saluted those of you, loudly and often, who do gluten-free well. It’s hard to deal with my specific, annoying dietary needs with limited funds and square footage. Dedicated fryers for gluten-free items? They’re pricey, take up space and there are far fewer celiacs than gluten-lovers around. Keeping the regular pasta pot separate from the gluten-free one? It’s a pain in the ass, and anyone who’s worked in a restaurant knows how many other things you deal with that chain chefs and managers don’t.
Still, I’d rather spend my dough locally, and on occasion I try, but I’ve encountered mishaps and outright frustration. One St. Petersburg restaurant assured me my meal was gluten-free, and then the next two days told me otherwise. Another place in South Pasadena said it doesn’t offer a gluten-free menu because — and I quote — “people were getting too particular, with celiac and other things.”
It’s disheartening. Experiences of either type make me wary to try any local gluten-free dish. Even when it has the “certified gluten-free” icon, I’m (all too) aware not everyone uses the symbol with permission, or, you know, actual certification. And I’d bet lots of y’all didn’t know that, either.
As such, eating out has become actively stressful for me, whereas it once was an adventurous joy. It’s also why more chain restaurants are getting my money more than ever, although part of me feels like I’m betraying small businesses by spending it there.
Rumors of that celiac vaccine, of course, could send me right back to my beloved mom-and-pops without fear.
But I digress, and I must go. My burger is here — and as I mentioned, this table is small.
