For many years, the local grocer which went by the founder's first name had a large sign painted on the side of the building, "You can't beat ____'s meat!"
I recall taking a guy who went by Frank, real name Guido, to an upscale Chinese place. I've had terrible luck with Franks. He had atrocious manners. When he finished his meal, he leaned his chair back on two legs, burped, stuck a toothpick in his mouth at a jaunty angle, and in a loud sing song voice said, "Fluffy? I no see Fluffy. He one with juicy hindquarter?"
I carefully curated a steak for a month allowing it to age and season only to end up with meat with the tenderness of leather.
Yes, I'm still mad about it.