This weekend was a rough one of sorts. Friday night was tamed by an early wake-up call for the LSAT:  Part Deux. Rushing around, my dietary intake consisted of a Sausage McGriddle and a Beef and Cheddar Sandwich (please, don’t judge). Braving the elements for the football game turned into cowering to hypothermic conditions and eventually ended with more delicious not-so-good food.

Sunday needed celebration. The tests were over and the rains had stopped. I made like Noah, loaded up the ark, and headed toward food. Because there’s no better way to rejoice than with a restaurant revisit and a review, right? Well, I thought so…

Here at EAThens, I try to keep the reviews as positive as Kate Gosselin’s old pregnancy tests. There’s no reason to relentlessly bash on a place just trying to make an honest bite. What really hurts, though, is when high expectations are deflated, stomped on, and ground into the muddy underfoot of disappointment (ask anyone who has directed a Nicholas Cage movie). That’s why this really hurts me more than it does you, Clocked.

I’ll admit that before Sunday, I had not been to Clocked in over a year. Located next to 40 Watt, it has maintained a pretty consistent image of an eccentric burger joint with creativity and personality. For example, word-of-mouth will tell you that they have a burger with peanut butter on it. Currrazzzzyyyyy!!! If the Grit is R.E.M., Clocked is the B-52′s. Only difference? None of my love was in their shack, if you know what I mean (ha HA!).

The menu is diner style, centered mostly around burgers. There are a few sandwiches and vegetarian options, but half of the menu is comprised of the ol’ beef beauties. First order of  business, though, is the brew. Per my usual burger going ways, I opted for a darker beverage–an Anchor Porter to be exact.

Next came the menu perusal. The cheapest burger on the menu was around $8 and was your typical thang. On down the list, the prices increased with the creativity (yes, again, they do have a peanut butter burger). I decided against the George Washington Carver style because I wanted cheese. I went mid-range and grabbed a $10 burger. The menu promised aged cheddar and smoked bacon. Can’t go too wrong there. But for me, that’s when it hit the proverbial fan.

My first request was to have my burger cooked-to-order. Sure, call me a snob, pretentious, whatever. If I am paying $10 for a burger in Athens, I would prefer it be cooked medium-rare. But alas, my request was denied. The only option was the other end of the spectrum, medium-well.

Further consideration was required for the sides. Long has Clocked been hailed as unique for their offering of tots. No more. Presented to me were the following:  cole slaw, potato salad, or french fries. My fellow dining buddy went with the fries, so I would try the coleslaw. Oh hindsight, how 20-20 you are!

Where to start…there are countless styles in which to  cook a burger. Clocked opts for the more line-cooked approach, mashing the patty against a hot grill and (ideally) creating a crispier texture from it being a little more well-done. This method, though not my favorite, has been accomplished by many. None of them cooked my burger.

Gretzky played with tastier pucks in his day, with the burger reminiscent of a generic Whopper. Any semblance of flavor was squeezed out, leaving the meat dry but not textured. Luckily for the meat, the rest of the burger made sure that it wasn’t the only inferior element. The bun (which was perhpas the best part) was smothered in mayonnaise, suffocating any other flavor with an oily glop. The “aged cheddar” was practically a half slice, and the bacon…well, the bacon was bacon. Kudos on that.

Don’t forget the neglected step child at the table:  the coleslaw. Packed with red cabbage, the slaw appeared pretty good. A few bites in, I was overpowered with red onions and red peppers, destroying any chance of tasting anything else (maybe that’s what they are going for).

Mushroom and Swiss Burger

Mama always said make criticism like an Oreo, so here’s the brief cream filling of this review. Clocked’s atmosphere is fun. The fries were not greasy and had a little crisp to them. And…uh…my glass was chilled? My server said, “Thanks for coming” (?). I hate to sound like Deborah Downer, or even Peggy Pessimistic, but Cynical Cynthia here just fell flat on her face for the hype. I did like the Dubble Bubble, though.

A quick glance over at yelp confirms my suspicions. Clocked has suffered recently from a downward spiral of reviews. That’s not to say don’t go try it for yourself. I mean, this isn’t North Korea, and I am not the king of America. I know you’re potential, Clocked. I love you, but you’re changing. I’m not mad. Just disappointed.

Clocked

Washington Street, next to Farm 255

706.548.9175

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this short life of mine, it’s that sometimes you have to do things by yourself. You can’t always enjoy company every time you want it. When faced with a lonely night, sometimes you just need to light some candles, put on Harry Connick Jr.’s Your Songs, slip into something comfortable, and…go out to eat!

Now don’t get me wrong, this plan isn’t my ideal night. But when I stroll solo into a place, say “Honey, tonight it’s going to be a table for one,” and lay out my crossword…it’s going to be a good night.

Last week, I made like John Wayne and moseyed downtown to grab some grub. My saloon? Farm 255.

Farm 255 is a skyscraper of ideals, rising above the slum that is the industrial food norm. Promising fresh, local, and seasonal fare, the folks at Farm aim to meet pretty high standards. They didn’t quit their day job on Full Moon farms, instead growing fresh herbs, produce, and raising grass-fed cattle directly for the restaurant.

Changing “as often as the weather,” the menu offers only a small, but diverse, selection of seasonal meals. A peak at the online menu guarantees nothing, as a change in the rains is a change in the choices.

Walking past the outdoor patio and music stage, I was greeted by a kind soul, one who immediately empathized with my solo efforts. She sat me at the bar, made sure I got a drink in an orderly fashion, checked up on me, and cut my meat for me. Okay, not that nice. But thanks, honey.

My thirsty palate first called for a Terrapin Oatmeal Stout (local, duh). Dark, thick, and sweet, the Terrapin side project is essential both to try and to lay asphalt. A pint glass of tar with over 7% abv proved the ultimate grease-cutter to wash down the meal to come. Wonderful.

As I scanned the menu, shrimp and grits looked yummy. The veggie plate seemed interesting. But I had to go with the burger. Admittedly, burgers aren’t the finest of cuisine. Oh wait, unless it’s at Farm. Sandwiched between a toasted Luna Baking Co. Kaiser roll, the grass-fed beef is topped with fresh basil, gooey Raclette, speck, and roasted garlic aioli.

Speck. Saltier, fattier, crispier bacon. It does for a burger what drugs did for The Beatles. There is a certain creative element, a certain intrigue…a certain cool. Atop creamy cheese, messy aioli and a clean taste of basil, the speck makes Farm’s burger the White Album. Basically, it lacked everything my lonely self tried to hide.

Appetizers include oysters, boiled peanuts, and other southern favorites. Other menu items vary from a fresh veggie plate to shrimp and grits. Local fruit and pecans make an appearance on the dessert menu. Even the cocktails include Full Moon farm ingredients, such as strawberries and mint.

Though a bit pricey, Farm 255 achieves what other restaurants write-off as impractical. No one bashes a Ferrari for quality, and Farm deserves nothing less. If you’re in the mood for enjoying farm-fresh food, live music, and good fun, make like Maggie and get yourself a Farm. If that doesn’t catch your fancy, you probably don’t enjoy fun. Your soul is dead.

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Farm 255

Washington Street, by 42 degrees

Menu

706.549.4659