'Cause I don't.
I hear they were a classy time, full of discotheques and polyester and the commercialization of the hippie movement, where everyone traveled to school and work via the power of their hip rollerskates while wearing little vials of cocaine around their necks.
Foodwise, there was fondue, and Caesar salad made tableside was starting to die out, and you couldn't find decent sushi to save your life.
And your city didn't appear on the scale of awesomeness unless it had a rotating restaurant. Chicago had one. Even Columbia, South Carolina had one, though by the time I made it there for college in 1997, it didn't so much rotate as loom immobile over the end of USC's campus.
But there's one in Houston that still works, and though their menu has been updated a little and no longer includes lobster Thermidor and Steak Newburg (or did I get that backwards and inside-out?) you can still order a large lukewarm martini and watch the skyline float by in a manner that, well, makes you stick to just one martini.
It's the Spindletop, and it's right at the top of the Hyatt in the middle of downtown.
My brother, his lady friend, my husband, and I settled into one of the tables, which at the time was located on the east side of the building.
This place was seven kinds of cheesy. The elevator to the top was outlined in light bulbs, which were just calling for a little light Kool and the Gang. There was a salad bar. The food we saw being carried by jutted out in every direction from the oversized square plates. It was fancy circa the mid-90s.
And on we traveled, light reflecting off the surrounding skyscrapers. Thinking we were smart, we'd timed our visit to this odd throwback for sunset. Any dreams we'd had of an unparalleled view of the setting sun were sort of crushed by the fact that the entire westward sky was, well, blocked by buildings. Oops. Perhaps in 1973, the view would have knocked us right out of our rainbow-striped knee socks.
I won't lie, it was kinda pretty seeing the lights come on around us. A fair complete with brightly lit Ferris wheel beckoned, but we had approaching dinner reservations.
January's Gourmet featured a restaurant in Texas - rare enough that we'd remembered and decided to drag my poor brother and his lady there. From the forty-word blurb, Danton's Gulf Coast Seafood Kitchen sounded like it would be a roll up your sleeves kind of place, where the walls were covered in fishing nets and everything was fried.
Well, the reviewers apparently haven't been within a hundred miles of a real country seafood shack in the last twenty years, because Danton's is emphatically not that. Yeah, there's crap on the walls, but the decor is decidedly American bistro, all black and white and wood.
They have great prices on some of the best Gulf oysters I've had, though, even if their prices have gone up.
The bear and I ordered two dozen right off the bat, because we're just those people, while DJ and M looked at us a little askance. They were game to try one or two each, but I'm not entirely certain I've gotten them converted. DJ did a great job at the crawfish boil he attended with my in-laws a couple years back, though, so I'm not concerned.
Plus, he saw redfish on the menu, said "what's that?" and immediately ordered it stuffed with crab and with a side of red beans and rice. I'm telling you, we know how to eat in this family.
Redfish is such a delicious fish, all firm and white and mild. No wonder Paul Prudhomme almost drove it extinct when he started off that blackening craze. I split a grilled fillet with the husband, and it was very nicely done - and their okra and tomatoes were the shizz, if you're into okra, which holy crap - yes please.
We returned the intrepid pair to their studies and drove the three hours back to Austin. On the way, we saw an enormous house fire with three fire trucks, a bunch of cop cars, and a posse of uniformed folks just watching it go. We didn't stop for pictures, but we should have.
By the way, did you know that the Houston/Galveston area has one of the largest Vietnamese populations in the US? This is oddly evident in Houston, at least when you look at the parking meters.