Aug 21, 2015, 10:45AM

Miss Shirley’s Is Baltimore’s Most Overrated Restaurant

A Quibbits quarrels with a pretentious local landmark.

Roland park home 89a635f0 c56e 038e ca7f713531c08f65.jpg?ixlib=rails 2.1

We Quibbits are known to quarrel. It’s in our blood. We start fights, confront and aggress. We make the first move. The Quibbits clan has a reputation for this, and not a good one, so we’ve cut back. Bennington Quibbits is not allowed in Best Buy anymore, or Starbucks. Monica, my partner, cannot get within five hundred feet of Siegfried and Roy. I am currently engaged in a long legal dispute with Brooks Brothers over delinquent payment for a modeling gig. It’s beside the point. That was years ago, and I’m done with having fun and allowing my coop’s name to be dragged through slop. Monica and I live a quiet life now in Bishop Boston’s Barn. We read to each other, go out to dinner, see movies, and occasionally go to Pecking Session with the younger Quibbits’. We even have brunch. Can you imagine? A Quibbits at brunch?

It’s normal for Monica and me to go out on Sunday mornings and get a quick bite. Emphasis quick. Now, new, Now. What’s happening now? I can’t deal with a crowded restaurant, especially in the morning, but if the food is good enough, I’ll suffer fools—to a point. But my experience at Miss Shirley’s on Cold Spring Lane in Baltimore has been consistently horrendous since the place opened years ago. Since then, they’ve swallowed the three adjacent businesses and abandoned buildings on the block, with an old pizzeria permanently boarded up two blocks down exclusively reserved for parking. Miss Shirley’s is always, inexplicably, packed to the gills, full of boiling brunchers and loud, ignorant college students. We were seated next to two particularly dim specimens of the beautiful people, braying about Moonrise Festival and how veganism is “retarded.” Bitch, I know that shit doesn’t affect you. I just about spur-clawed her heels.

This is all of course after we were seated in the first place. As roosters, we Quibbits should be immediately recognizable to any server in a restaurant. We usually get perturbed looks and shown the door before I can show them my badge and security clearance. But this place. My God! It’s one of those monstrosity brunch havens with permanent wait lists and buzzers and no discernible place to stand in line. Two groups went ahead of us as we patiently and politely waited before Monica stepped in front of the third and curtly informed the server of our presence. Blushing, she took us to a table in the third hall of the complex, a room full of empty tables where she managed to seat us inches away from another couple, while there were vast rows of peace and quiet and privacy behind us.

I was already steamed, like when you’re in a public bathroom using the urinal and someone decides to use the one right next to you. In any case, eventually we received some decent food. Monica had waffles, while I indulged a plate of pancakes, pig, potatoes, and toast. Sipping my requisite ginger ale, I was already plotting my revenge, certain that this was the most overrated restaurant in Baltimore by a country mile, second only to Woodberry Kitchen and its creepy, cultish atmosphere. After receiving our check and interacting with four different waiters and busboys, I exacted Rooster’s ruling: a one-dollar tip. I don’t care if the servers don’t pool tips and I screwed over one cog in a kooky machine. Collateral damage. My statement was made, and no sooner were we in the wheelbarrow did I unload on Monica all the bitterness and manic sorrow so typical of the Quibbits family. She agreed that it was a rotten scene, but encouraged me to wait a little before writing my screed to let my feelings adjust. Don’t eat at Miss Shirley’s. It’s no soup for the soul. 

—Follow Rooster Quibbits on Twitter: @RoosterQuibbits

  • Miss Shirley's sucks. One time, at their old location, a kid—a random kid, mind you, no relation, total stranger—walked up to me and said "I finished my whole breakfast, all the waffles and everything." Like, what am I supposed to do with that? And then, get this, the kid's brother (I think brother, could've been a friend) walked up to me and refuted the other kid—this kid was like, "He didn't really finish his meal, he was lying. He hid the bacon on my plate." And, ok, most of me is like, Why are you telling me this? But also part of me—the Christian part, mind you, hehe, no pun intended (lol)—is like, Well, I don't care for liars, and one of these kids is lying, let's find out who, so I know where to direct my voodoo incantations (Some people say it's bologna, I say, Hey, show me some science that backs up your denouncement; also, Let me have my fun, ok?) Anyways, I go to the table and find out the first kid was lying! He totally hid his bacon underneath someone else's pancakes! Woah! So, yeah, Miss Shirley's... what a terrible place.

    Responses to this comment
  • You did well in getting to the bottom of that one, Christian, but why blame it on Miss Shirley's? Is the restaurant supposed to be responsible for every kid who lies about their bacon? Seems unreasonable to me.I'm really not sure you're a true "Christian" now.

  • Jesus! Can you even stick a pencil up your butt, Chris Beck! This was an anecdote—an aside, and a funny one!—about the Quibbits article. Do you always take things so literally?

  • It felt like you and Quibbets were kind of piling on Ms Shirley's so I needed to speak up. Quibbits had a legit complaint with the seating and I hate when that is done to me but your thing was a little dramatic. I mean do you want Ms Shirley herself to come out and make sure young kids don't lie about their brunch to you?!

    Responses to this comment
  • Jackpot Christian. Know we know why Beck is so full of shit!

    Responses to this comment
  • Oh dear, my stalker is here and he probably thinks this is serious. Embarassing. Yes, "know we know."

    Responses to this comment

Register or Login to leave a comment