Gus’s has a downhome, divey comfort to it: this ain’t no fancy pants your-water’s-gonna-cost-you-$8.50 kinda place. This also ain’t no I’m-gonna-get-a-salad-cause-I’m-trying-lose-weight-and-I’m-worried-about-my-gall-bladder kinda place either. Nearly every damned thing in here is fried, and if it ain’t fried, it’s swimming in cheese the color of post-nuclear Armageddon.