Mythos: Grotto of the Gods
Universal Studios
Orlando, FL
It isn’t possible to enjoy the long, hot days at the parks without knowing how to endure them. Under not so rare circumstances, you may require a little extra charm and consistency to properly care for your insides than generally offered. Walk no further than Mythos - its namesake the ancient observatory used to chart the celestial constellations. While this Mythos is a restaurant and not an ancient observatory, perhaps the map to the heavens and flavortown are one after all. Here is a welcome respite from the bulk mail-order turkey legs divvied up from the same coop supplying your suburban summer festival carts and the renaissance fair along the state line. Finally the theme park meal you have been dreaming about since a day ago when seeking refuge in its shade and discovering its curiously bold proclamation. While it might starve your wallet a little bit longer than the usual suspects, it will also claim responsibility for the opposite treatment to your aching belly -- even long after you’ve returned to your dark hotel room. Are you prepared for such adventure? Who can direct your vulnerable flock with the respect of a Scottish sheepdog? Heed Bonnie of Austintown, Ontario. A continental traveler whose knowledge of the cuisine is second only to its creator. Listen to what she says; her deep smoker’s growl is as comforting as your great aunt’s. Even when cowering from libations (for fears of public dehydration), or gambling on a dish you’ve never spoken aloud before now and only ever seen written out in the subtitles for a movie you had heard was really good, Bonnie will smile and confirm your decision was the right one. You are knocking it out of the park.
But what elevates this establishment to lore more imposing than Poseidon’s power? Picture this: velour seatbacks, paper straws in your iced water, bread as cavernous as your periphery, and cloth napkins appear before you without request. With a moment’s focus, giant faces appear in the rock walls. A river runs through it all, coloring the cave wall (and your ears!) with a shimmer; your conversation punctuated by a lonely nylon string, a reticent choir of woodwinds, and Bonnie’s baritone confirming what she already knew - you are doing just fine. You don’t vocalize that to her, but the sentiment is clearly received by tracing the trail of secret sauce dripping along the okay sign you’re pumping in her direction (in lieu of exposing the union ritual you’re sharing with your lamb burger). Thanks for the refill though. This peace is momentarily disturbed by her second attempt at extending your stay with their signature dessert. A moment before adding an annoyed accent to the ‘no thank you’ still echoing above, you get a realization that her newfound pestiferousness is a gift: justifiably blame your indulgence on her persistence. But you hold strong knowing this is the first of many trials. Without strain, you can see your future just beyond the water. Hours in toon lagoon await.