I went to a restaurant run by feminists, and it was terrible.

You probably have a lot of questions. I would too if I were the one reading that sentence rather than the one writing it.

These people — the people most obsessed with 'acceptance' as a political virtue — are generally miserable to be around.

How exactly do I know it was run by rabid feminists? Why exactly was it terrible because it was run by such feminists? I will explain.

My wife, children, and I were on vacation. We were off in the deep north of the Middle West. After driving for a few hours, we were ready for a bite to eat. There aren’t too many options that far out in the northern wilderness.

We were thankful to find a place — any place! — about 15 minutes away, right on a lake. A small restaurant on a lake up north, that’s got to be an easy-going, relaxing place to have lunch, right?

Wrong.

Service with a sneer

The atmosphere was rank from the moment we opened the door. The woman at the front greeted my wife with a cold and sour, “May I help you?” We sat down and things descended farther. They didn’t have a children’s menu. Who doesn’t have a children’s menu? They didn’t have booster seats. Who doesn’t have booster seats?

Often, when we go out with our kids, we order a side salad for them to split. Basically every restaurant has one or will make one.

But not this one.

My wife politely asked, “Could we get a side salad for the kids to share?”

Our frigid, tight-lipped waitress curtly answered, “No.”

They had a tiny menu, obviously excluding simple fare to signal some kind of “finer taste.” Remember, this is in the middle of nowhere, no cellphone service. Who are they kidding?

Whine list

There was a small bar with a single bartender. She was the type of gender-confused leftist who dyes her hair black, then chops it off into some kind of faux mullet.

Adorned with doodle tattoos, no makeup, and tasteless piercings, she stood behind the bar seething. Her default facial setting was one of bubbling rage. It looked like she wanted to kill. It may sound like I am exaggerating, and maybe I am, but only barely. This is how she looked, this is how she acted, and this is how it felt.

The general vibe was more reminiscent of a hostage situation than a dining establishment. The tables were full, but barely anyone spoke. It felt like everyone was afraid to say anything. They were scared for their lives.

There was a tense hum of silence over the tables. An older couple came in to ask if they could get a table, and the woman at the front made it seem like they were asking if she could split the atom for them. It was bizarre.

Malice's Restaurant

Different places have different feelings. It doesn’t come down to just one element. It’s the sum of the parts. The way people speak to you, the way they look at you, the way the decor is arranged, the music, the signs on the wall, the kind of people working. Some places are warm, inviting, and comfortable. Others are not, and this place was not.

Everyone working was a woman. At the front, behind the bar, waiting the tables.

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Bettman/Getty Images

It’s hard to describe why, but I got the sense that they were all owners, like they all pitched in together. They weren’t just workers with paychecks. There was something else there. They weren’t moms, young college students, or anyone else you might expect to be working at a restaurant. Something was off.

They all looked, and acted like, a different archetype of unhappy, unfulfilled feminist. They all had the same kind of unpleasant, tightly wound, ready to snap, judgmental demeanor. They all looked down on my wife and kids with a patronizing and adversarial predisposition.

Of course, they weren’t exactly friendly to me either.

Appetite for destruction

There is a certain way bitter feminists, angry lesbians, and gender destroyers look at me, my wife, and kids. My wife is beautiful; she wears dresses every day. My daughter too. I dress in a classic American style, and so does my son.

For these types of people, our family is an aesthetic refutation of their broken and disordered ideology. They don’t like us (or people like us), and it’s very obvious.

And that’s why their restaurant is so miserable. These kinds of people are not happy people, they are not welcoming people, they are not warm people. They don’t like kids, they don’t like families, they don’t like happy men or beautiful women. They only like bitter, broken, and disordered individuals.

They might make fine food — and the food was just fine — but their obvious disdain for us left a bad taste all the same.

Signal du jour

There were signals of their political orientation on the walls. There were two restrooms. Both had signs that read “All Gender Restroom” in the middle of the door.

These signs, if you haven’t seen them, include three figures. A man, a woman in a dress, and then a figure that is half-man and half-woman. Half pants, half dress. A perfect example of the laziest, most pathetic kind of leftist virtue-signaling.

Again, this restaurant is in the middle of nowhere. The restroom signs are a political act, an intentional provocation, and an obvious indication of who they are.

It was the type of place that hangs a sign in the window that reads “ALL ARE WELCOME” in a variety of colors, despite the actual atmosphere inside being one that is completely acidic and 0% welcoming.

Check, please!

It’s a fascinating thing. You see this a lot. Crunchy grocery stores, vegan restaurants, and other lefty-type places. These people — the people most obsessed with “acceptance” as a political virtue — are generally miserable to be around. They are devoted to acceptance on paper, but their aura is like that of an electric fence.

Women are warm, welcoming, and kind. It’s their nature. That’s why they are called the fairer sex. God made them best with kids and things more sensitive.

Extreme feminists of 2025 are none of those things and possess none of those wonderful attributes. They have, in general, made their identity into one based on opposing any natural female traits, virtues, or sensibilities.

They have instead set their sights on trying, and failing, to be men. They have decided to resist, reject, and make war on all the wonderful things of women. That’s why they are so unhappy, and that’s why their restaurant was so miserable. It was clean, the food was fine, the location was great, but the women were dreadful, dour, sad, and bitter.

Walking out of the restaurant, our kids stumbling over each other, our family gleefully disturbing the morgue-like pall of the dining room, we laughed to one another. Thankful we are who we are and aren’t who we aren’t. It must be a miserable life being an angry feminist.