Lunch in the Gump: After Doyle checked out, LITG checked out Wintzell's

Yesterday morning the Lunch in the Gump gang all went to see Doyle B on his deathbed. With his dying breath, Doyle reminded us that we hadn’t tried seafood lately, so we decided we'd hit the new Wintzell’s Oyster House if Doyle would go ahead and pass away before the end of the traditional lunch hour.

Just like he was at a Holiday Inn Express, Doyle checked out by 11:30 AM. We went through his pockets, found three wadded-up twenties and Show Dog said, “Woo hoo! Lunch is on Doyle today.” After starting on a downer, this particular Monday was looking up.

Doyle’s defective common-law wife, having long since absconded with anything of value, was of course nowhere to be found (that bitch). So we called the funeral home with the address, told them Doyle was there on the sofa not going anywhere and left the front door unlocked. We got to Wintzell’s ahead of the crowd, with healthy appetites and Doyle’s $60, which he sure wasn't going to need wherever he was headed.

We were pretty jazzed up about going to Wintzell’s. While the place is part of a chain, LITG has been known to waive the no-chain rule if the chain originated in Alabama. Wintzell’s was founded in downtown Mobile in 1938 (see original at left) and was as well-known for its irreverent interior signage (“Emily Post threw up here” being an example) as it was for its old-school staff, cold drinks, fresh seafood, and world-class gumbo. The original Wintzell’s was in the same class as some of the famed New Orleans oyster joints.

Well, this version of Wintzell’s was a disappointment. First of all, it's at the Renaissance downtown in a space tricked out like the Gotham Bar & Grill. The preprinted, homey little sayings on placards covering the walls don't disguise the fact that if Wintzell's doesn't make it, David Bronner can move Chez Fru-Fru right in. The food was ordinary, bland and/or overcooked and none of the Gumps in attendance was particularly excited about any of it. Maybe we all ordered wrong or caught them on a bad day.

Before I even took a bite... I guess there was so

much rice in there, some settling occurred.

My gumbo was tasty, but the shrimp had been cooking in there so long they had shrunken to the size of Sea Monkeys... tough, chewy little Sea Monkeys! And they didn’t even fill up the massive cup, as shown above.

Catfish ordered an oyster po-boy and the oysters were overcooked to the toughness of well-done chicken. Many things are supposed to taste like chicken --rattlesnake, for instance, or alligator -- but not oysters. Even a fried oyster is supposed to have that certain slime factor.

Show Dog ordered the fried crawfish appetizer and got seven scrawny crab claws instead. I was embarrassed to ask if I could taste one for fear Show Dog might starve to death.

The normally easy-to-please Tojo Yamamoto ordered shrimp and grits. After lunch I asked him how it was, and Tojo replied, “Grits in middle. Six little shrimp in circle. Sauce like baby food. Tojo still hungry.”

$16.04 pre-tip

A $19.04 check (including a $3.00 tip) left me underwhelmed. We agreed that Doyle was probably rolling over in his grave, then Tojo reminded us “Doyle not in grave. Doyle on sofa unless bipolar common-law wife come back to get sofa already.”

We left thinking Lunde’s should be our next stop, for some actual Gulf Coast/Cajun/New Orleans/Mobile/Creole/properly spicy/non-chain/somebody-in-the-kitchen-gives-a-shit food.

We will also cover Doyle’s funeral later in the week.