I had serious trepidation about eating at Bubba Gump Shrimp Company. As my son and I approached the restaurant on the third floor of the Mall of America, we encountered a giant pink shrimp - the official mascot of Bubba Gump. Now, I am by no means a foodie. But I do have one foodie theory: If there is a mascot involved in your restaurants promotions, your food sucks. Case in point: Ronald McDonald, Chuck E. Cheese, and that sombrero wearing spider monkey in the “Taco Johns” commercials. So as I stood before a giant pink shrimp that looked like something between a flaccid penis and a naked mole rat (Is there a difference?), my stomach gurgled. The person inside the giant shrimp costume slapped stickers on my son and gave us a coupon for some free appetizer dip. I took a deep breath, turned towards Murph, and said, “Let’s do this.”

A series of smiley faces led us through the restaurant entrance which was adorned with memorabilia, photos, and knick knacks from the set of the blockbuster film. It truly was a sight to behold: The very theme of the restaurant was based on a movie about an idiot who mumbles, runs a lot, sits on a park bench, and eats a box of chocolates. We sat down in a booth that was located directly across from mall’s concourse. It provided us with a staggering view of the parade of mall rats, fanny packed German tourists, and teenage horned dogs that occupy MOA’s third floor. As I looked over the drink menu that was adhered to a ping-pong paddle, a teenage boy wearing a gas mask casually strolled by in the concourse. He was followed by another teenage boy who was sweetly holding the hand of a teenage girl. That innocent moment was shattered when I realized the boy was wearing a t-shirt that said, “You Look Like My Next Girlfriend.”

A waiter bounded over to our booth, dropped to the ground in a power squat, and rested his elbows on the table.

“Sup guys? My name is Tommy!” The waiter said totally jazzed. “It’s great to see ya. What are you having?”

“Cheese burger kids meal and a cheese burger for me as well,” I said. 

“Awesome,” Tommy replied.  “Great!” He sprang up from his catcher’s position and bounded away. (Note: This was totally refreshing. In most dining situations, I am made to feel like a leaper because of the sole fact that I procreated.) As we waited for our food, I watched a fellow patron wearing a Nascar t-shirt get up from his table, go to the bathroom, and come back wearing a Vikings jersey with “Favre #4” on the back. 

“Now THAT’S what I’m talking about,” I said to him as he walked past me. (Note: Maybe this is why in most dining situations I am treated like a leaper: I’m a jackass.)

Our food arrived and was surprisingly good. Although the fries were average (they had zero seasoning. I prefer my fries loaded with so much seasoning and MSG that my innards glow), my burger was better than at the ones I had at “Burger Jones” and “Five Guys”. Murphy’s kids’ meal came in a boat basket that begged to ask an important question: Who on God’s green earth wouldn’t want to eat lunch out of a boat basket?