Denny's Restaurant — Restaurant in Vancouver

As the neon lights of Vancouver’s Denman Street blurred into a kaleidoscope, I stumbled upon Denny’s—a beacon of greasy salvation in the fog of inebriation. The sign flickered like a half-remembered dream, and I knew this was my destiny: to pen an epic review fueled by bourbon and existential musings.

Ambiance: 3.5/5 Stars

The interior was a symphony of vinyl booths, laminated menus, and fluorescent bulbs. A noir film set collided with a suburban diner, and I half-expected Humphrey Bogart dressed in drag to slide into the booth next to me, muttering about lost love and overcooked eggs.

Service: 4/5 Stars

Our waitress, Ethel (or was it Gertrude?), shuffled over with the grace of a wounded swan. Her eyes held secrets—probably involving late-night pancake binges and clandestine rendezvous with the hash browns. She took our orders, her pencil trembling like a poet’s quill.

The Chicken Bacon Caesar Sandwich: A Revelation

I ordered the Chicken Bacon Caesar Sandwich, a concoction that straddled the line between genius and madness. The chicken, tender as a love letter, nestled between crispy bacon and romaine lettuce. The Caesar dressing flowed like forgotten memories, tangy and comforting. Each bite whispered, “You’re alive, kid.”

The Poutine Incident: A Tragicomedy

Across the table, my friend—let’s call her Cornel Fitz—dove into the abyss of Poutine. The fries, golden and defiant, bore the weight of curds and gravy. But alas! The sauce clung to them like a possessive ex. Fitz’s face contorted, and she muttered, “Too thick, mate. Like my regrets.”

The Fries: A Beacon of Hope

But let us not dwell on tragedy. The fries—oh, those humble spuds—were the unsung heroes. Crispy, salty, and unpretentious thick cringle style, they whispered, “Life is short; eat more fries.” And so I did, dipping them into the remnants of Fitz’s poutine sauce. Redemption tasted like starchy salvation.

Conclusion: A Drunken Ode to Denny’s

As the night waned, I leaned back, my chair creaking in solidarity. Denny’s on Denman had become my muse, my refuge. The walls absorbed my slurred confessions, and a jukebox somewhere played Sinatra, crooning about regrets and second chances.

So here’s to you, Denny’s: a haven where bourbon and beer-soaked dreams collide with reality. May your booths cradle lost souls, and may your fries forever be golden.

Note to self: Pitch this as a feature for the New Yorker. Or maybe just pass out on...

We went in for a birthday grandslam. It was quiet...too quiet. No music. A young smiling woman greeted us and sat us at our table, sadly there was a bait and switch. Our new waitress was..um...more experienced and she had sold her smile to the devil. She was probably once so happy, she once ran through the fields and danced at festivals, laughed at jokes and wrote poetry...but now, the dark reality of life had taken over. We ordered eggs sunnyside up so her life could be brighter. Maybe she heard reports of people pretending it was their birthday, or perhaps she didn't think birthdays happen on Saturdays...whatever the reason,she checked my friend's passport for 60 seconds, until she was 100% certain we were telling the truth. She kinda took the order, but really I think she told us what we were having. I ordered some french toast. " Just one piece?" she asked? I now felt weak, like I wasn't a man anymore. Even though my stomach is now golfball sized, I ordered hashbrowns to show her I was big and strong. She walked away, looked back and grunted "Happy birthday". Angry at how beautiful and young my friend was, the waitress through a pile of forks and knives on the floor. We jumped at the sound! No other table reacted to this noise, because they were ghosts. I looked at my friend's incredible smile and the atmosphere in the place increased immediately. (OK I'm adding two stars now). Our waitress returned and 'Throw/dropped/handed' us the plates. She said happy birthday again, but this time in a more sad way. We just laughed for 20 mins. We ate, we laughed some more, we dreamed. She brought us the check, I paid. We put our coats on. Then the waitress came back and asked me to pay again, it was then I realized it was...

Server was a deadbeat. Not once did she offer coffee refills even though we'd requested the endless cups of coffee. And didn't come around even once to enquire if all was good or if we might we want anything else. Then was told that after a certain time charges must be prepaid. That's a first. Guess she thought we couldn't settle the cheque. Should have embarrassed her further by pulling out the Visa Platinum. Then the bathroom wasn't working. Why is it that restrooms at this place, Davie Tim Hortons, petrol station at burrard/davie and likely a slew of other places are permanently out of order? Is there no health/hygiene law requiring workable toilets and if they aren't operable then a timeframe within which bathrooms need to be fixed and made available at least to patrons. Not saying just running in from street and asking to use the WC. Had food/drink there and afterwards wanted to take a piss. Only to be told bathrooms out of order. They need to get more creative with their bald faced lies... Then there was this guy who comes in 3X/day, 7 days a week. He panhandles other customers at every table to scrounge up enough change for whatever he ate. Management are well aware of situation yet do nothing. On the night we were there he was asked to leave no less than 3 times yet he'd return after about 10" to continue his donation request 'to feed the children' as so poignantly put it. Not a problem for me to tell him to piss off after he'd already made the rounds at 4 or 5 tables. But thinking of families with kiddies. These types might feel genuinely threatened if they declined his spare change request. Sounds a lot like coercion. Or...