The dining room is a fun amalgamation of my family’s finished basement and my best friend’s kitchen back in 1977. Straight, flat-board paneling runs up three-fourths of the wall and is then capped off by funky daisy-print wallpaper that extends to the ceiling. 

Despite a scattered menu, good eats can be had at this gimmicky restaurant as long as you choose wisely. The best option by far is the rich, white clam pizza with crème fraiche and gruyère cheese. The crust is thin and crispy. The pie itself is sliced Chicago style—a medium-sized disc cut into a litany of smallish squares.

The Spam sandwich (don’t be scared) is equally creamy and crunchy as it is spicy. Shrimp and grits are a gooey, buttery mass of goodness, if not a bit too smoky.

A hearty Manwich, a sloppy joe on toasted brioche with Velveeta cheese, doesn’t taste nearly as awful as the authentic version I remember growing up. But it’s certainly not worth ordering unless you simply can’t resist those sudden urges for food days gone by. 

Our shaved crimini pizza arrived bland and tepid, but it’s difficult to stay mad at a place that serves Thunderbird and Ovaltine with a straight face.

I have a feeling this restaurant wants to be a destination place regarded for its food, but that’s not likely to happen unless the kitchen brings some focus to the flighty menu. Instead, the restaurant’s groovy 1970’s vibe will lure them in and the nostalgic drinks will keep them giddy and coming back.

Even the staff digs the concept. “Did you guys have to special order that shirt?” Melanie asked a skinny, shaggy-haired teenage server wearing a mint-condition, Boston world tour concert T-shirt, circa 1978. “Nah, it’s my mom’s,” he replied before strutting off.