Lincoln. Often hailed as the greatest American, the name carries connotations of freedom, perseverance, liberation, and food. Wait, food? Some might assume that Honest Abe’s slim figure was the result of his relentless dedication to performing the duties of leadership leaving little time for peripheral activities such as eating. But that’s where they’re wrong. A new restaurant in McPherson Square, called Lincoln, boasts a menu ostensibly full of all the munchies craved by the face of the penny, a man who presumably boasted a metabolism matched only by world-champion competitive eater Takeru Kobayashi.
Lincoln’s decor offers a contemporary interpretation of the man under the hat. The floor is covered in real pennies and the bright art pieces set a tone that would surely please Abe. The dark, atmospheric lighting recalls the clubs the former head of state probably hung out in while taking time off from the endlessly annoying responsibilities of running the country and trying to win the Civil War. And right in the middle of the restaurant sits a monstrous white leather chair that looks like something right out of a film by Stanley Kubrick, who probably would have been Abe’s favorite director if he had lived a century later.
The water was served in old fashioned mason jars from which Huck Finn might have drunk moonshine, and the menu looked promising, boasting items like macaroni and cheese and fried quail with waffles. The first dish on the table, “House baked bread,” with a scrumptious spread, was disappointingly puny—just a single piece of what might as well have been Wonderbread split into four sections and toasted. I pictured Lincoln taking a bite out of this miniscule appetizer and began to question how genuine his supposed gastronomical passion was. But I tried to keep an open mind as the waiter brought out the entrees.
Still excited to see what dishes my childhood hero would have craved during a long wagon ride back to the White House, I was willing to forget about my disappointment with the house bread. But my hopes of having a hearty, American meal were quickly shot down as the first entree, a miniature chicken pot pie, was placed before me. The menu classifies entrees as “small plates,” and that’s not an understatement. I wolfed the tiny serving down in a nanosecond. Then came the fried quail and waffles—tasty, yes, but they left me hungry for much more. Unfortunately, at over 12 dollars a plate, my wallet and my patience could not muster up the courage to order any more food.
The food had vanished, and I, fool that I am, could not comprehend why the food portions purportedly enjoyed by the great emancipator had been so un-American. I suddenly found myself empathizing with John Wilkes Booth, for above all else, this country needs a leader who takes pride in America’s super-sized, artery-clogging delights. But my anger subsided when I reasoned that the selections offered at Lincoln could not have been based on Abe’s actual favorite dishes. As I took one last look at the discombobulated servers walking across the penny-gilded floor, my stomach still rumbling with unsatisfied hunger, I pictured the ghost of the greatest American president seated in the huge leather chair at the center of the room, scowling with disapproval at the meager offerings of the restaurant that bears his name. So, Lincoln (the restaurant), bulk up the portions, lower the prices, and get your workers in order before you dare to name yourself after the greatest American president.
