The Worst Review

The Worst Review

Let me first say I only tried the place because I read a Google review complaining that a family got kicked out for having noisy children. If ever there was an advertisement! I also had a coupon, but I left that in my Escalade.

Once I found the restaurant, I cruised right past the complimentary valet service. You get what you pay for, and I’d just as soon drag rakes across my car before I hand over the keys to those mongoloids. But after I parked in an open compact spot, I saw a line stretching out the restaurant’s door. Now, I’m no more prejudiced against popularity than the next guy, but from the way some of the other patrons were dressed, I knew I’d stand out for having taste. Luckily, I had reservations, and I was early, so I wouldn’t have to wait with these plebeians. I even made the reservations for three so that it’d be simpler when I showed up alone and before I needed to.

I slipped past the hordes of unwashed (m)asses and into the restaurant. A clattering cacophony distracted me from the smells of deep-fried diabetes. I feared the bland decorative art would be a perfect compliment to tasteless food.

During my disrespectful wait (my DVR was nearly full, so it wasn’t like I didn’t have other things to do), I tried to distract myself by using the restroom, which was a step above pre-historic. Nothing was motion activated! I thought I’d traveled back in time, and wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to spot Charlemagne in the next stall. The urinals had no dividers between them, which can be off-putting for other people when standing next to a man of such generous proportions as myself. I opted for a stall since I was in no mood for show-and-tell.

Afterwards, I discovered to my horror that the faucets were the press-down-and-hold types that save water by dissuading people from washing altogether. In lieu of paper towels, one dried his hands with antiquated Cold War era blowdryers. The door was also manually operated, meaning that patrons and workers alike did their business, hammered at the faucet handles with their filthy hands, then pressed the blowdryer button with marginally cleaner hands only to piss away their efforts by gripping the germ-magnet doorknob. This had to be a health code violation, though I doubt any inspector would risk his own wellbeing by walking inside this cesspool.

Five minutes after I went back out into the galley of mediocrity that was their lobby, they finally called my name. At least I think they did, since the hostess butchered it so thoroughly that I was hardly able to recognize it. Sorry that some of us have polysyllabic last names with silent G’s. When I was finally seated, I complained that I’d been waiting since I got there, and the hostess looked at me like I said something silly! I suppose some people are too stupid to realize how dumb they are.

When I asked for a new booth since the first one still smelled like it’d been cleaned recently, I was rebuffed and told “that’s not how things work.”

“Then sounds like things are broken!” is what I could’ve said, but my unconscious must’ve taken pity on this poor soul, for it wasn’t until several nights later that I thought of this gem. That comment would’ve shattered her like a boulder falling through her glass house of pride.

After the hostess graced me with her departure, a typical femme-fetale sacheed up, dressed in black along with all the other miserable miscreants in the food industry. I usually try to imagine them in their underwear, if only to distract from their hideous wardrobe. The waitress started by making a “joke.” I don’t know why she thought it’d be acceptable to try to make a stranger laugh. Not all of us enjoy “jokes,” and some of us prefer a sense of decorum over a sense of “humor.” I could already tell that this was the type of place where the customer always knows best since the staff clearly doesn’t have a clue.

Thanks to my stay in the holding cell that was the lobby, I knew my order before I was even seated. Unlike the waitstaff, I was in no mood to dilly dally since I wasn’t being paid to be there. I even announced my order loudly so patrons around me wouldn’t have to hear the sludge pouring out of the restaurant’s sound system.

By the way, I don’t mean to start a stir, but they only serve bottled water by request! Can you imagine? As if I eat out so that I can drink tap-water like some pestilent peasant.

After keeping me in suspense, I was eventually brought my martini. Even though I strongly insinuated that I didn’t want an olive, either the waitress ignored me or the bartender overruled me and put one in anyway. I tried my best to finish it, but just over midway through, I discovered I was right in the first place, and asked for a new one. I’m not one to be nit picky, but I doubt that the martini olive was even organic.

But enough about drinks, I went there to eat, though dulling my senses was nothing short of prescient. Suffice to say, this is the type of restaurant where a single mouthful is “all-you-can-eat.” The salad had so many croutons that it rendered the complimentary bread redundant, while the Minestrone had less substance than modern art. The mashed potatoes were served at room temperature, which is to say frigid, while the steak was a compelling argument for vegetarianism. And the chocolate cake was so bad that I wouldn’t even feed it to my dog! I expected to find a fly in my meal, but apparently insects have the good sense to avoid this establishment. Mahatma Gandhi could’ve staged a hunger strike here free from temptation. If this was my last meal, I’d skip it and die a happy man.

The waitress asked me if I wanted a to-go box. Now that’s a joke! I wouldn’t let their food in my car if it was dressed in a hazmat suit. When she brought the bill, I was flabbergasted that I was expected to pay for my first martini! I asked to speak to her manager, and she agreed, as if she didn’t want to speak with me anymore. She probably regretted not spitting in my food. After tasting it, I regret her not spitting in my food as well.

Up waddled the womanager. Now, I’m not sexist (just ask my maid), but I just don’t think women can run restaurants as well as men. Obviously, this experience confirms my prior conclusion. But when the womanager asked what the problem was, my heart (or something inside me) softened. She was just making the best of a bad situation. Perhaps someone at Corporate wanted to sabotage her career, so they assigned her the shittiest staff they could find. When I explained this to her, she deliberately misinterpreted it into an insult! She told me I’m banned for life, which in retrospect is a merciful sentence compared to eating there again.

So in summation, I recommend this place to anyone looking to lose weight: the food is diet friendly and will curb your appetite for days on end. I also recommend this place for recovering alcoholics, since a drink here will cure you of any desire to drink again.

Do yourself a favor: skip this place and treat yourself to a bag of discount dog food instead. If you are forced to eat here, lower your expectations and prepare to still be disappointed.