Eat, Drink and be Wary

A friend of mine asked me to review this restaurant. Not because she ate there. Not because someone she trusted recommended it to her. No. She asked me to review this restaurant because of their TripAdvisor reviews. Basically, she felt sorry for them, that’s all it really amounted to.

Now all my friends knew me for my non-discriminating palette, nurtured from childhood by my sainted mother whose many virtues did not include her ability to cook a decent meal.

We were taught to eat anything that she put before us, despite color, texture, or the fact that even our dog wouldn't eat it.

Throughout our childhood, we usually dutifully ate whatever mom placed before us. We did occasionally choose to go to our rooms without supper if the meal was especially distasteful – usually one of Mom’s “dinner experiments gone awry.” The only absolute boundary we had was: we would not eat or drink actual poison.

With my culinary bar set so low, my friend hoped my review would be kind, considerate, or at least less brutal than the current restaurant comments on TripAdvisor. I agreed to a "unique dining experience" (which my friend agreed to pay for), donned the appropriate attire (jeans and a t-shirt) and entered the sacred portals of this restaurant. I have documented the phases of this experience below from start to finish.

Phase 1: First Impression: I was greeted upon arrival by a person who haughtily referred to himself as the Matre’d. He then informed me that I would have to wait a few minutes to be seated. I peered past him to view a completely empty dining room and wondered what I was waiting for. No problem: I was not yet hungry and they had a bar.

Phase 2: The Seating: 10 minutes later, I was seated at a table they had not yet cleaned. And by not yet cleaned, I mean that the dishes showed a meal someone had for breakfast. The waiter apologized and cleared the plates off, placing a glass of water before me.

Phase 3: The Menu: Another 10 minutes passed before the waiter returned with a menu covered in food stains. I politely asked for a clean menu but the waiter insisted that the "stains" were actually part of the menu design; despite the fact that the brown stains smelled of old gravy and the chunky bits looked and felt very much like petrified meatloaf.

Phase 4: The Order: I scanned the menu for something I could identify as edible. Most of the entrees had fancy European-sounding names that seemed to obscure the menu item itself. I finally settled on Corned Beef and Cabbage, since it was both written in English and had shamrocks on either side of the name to identify its ethnic origin.

Phase 5: First Course: I was given the choice of soup or salad. I assumed soup to be the safer option and was given a bowl of some liquid whose color was a cross between orange and green. I tentatively took a sip and tasted pumpkin, parsley and peas. The course description included the word "Surprise" so I probably shouldn't have been.

Phase 6: The Entree: Again, I grew up with my mother's cooking so I felt that nothing on God's earth would surprise me. But my entree was neither from God nor from this earth. I've had corned beef and this was not it. The alien lifeform on my plate was slightly pink and hard a leather. My waiter asked if I wanted a steak knife. I asked him for a hammer and chisel.

Phase 6 - part 2: The Entree - Side Dishes: I thought I could never taste anything worse than Mom's soggy vegetables (her mushy asparagus was a thing of legend) but the cook here surpassed it. The cabbage resembled cabbage until I tried to cut it with my fork. It then disintegrated into light green mush the way I believe Dracula disintegrated into dust when Van Helsing pounded a stake through his heart.

The second side dish was potatoes, which I should have realized would be subpar when I heard the sound of a can opener whirring from the kitchen.

At this point, I stood up to peer into the kitchen, expecting to see my mother there, demonstrating the finer points of destroying a meal.

Phase 7: The Dessert: Yes, they had shot me and now they were going to bury me. The waiter proudly placed a small plate of "something" in front of me with a flourish. Again, the dessert was hidden in the descriptive text that ended with "Surprise" – in this case, as in sneak attack. After some poking and prodding with my fork, I realized it was a Hostess Ding Dong covered in whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. A stale Ding Dong at that.

I passed on Phase 8: Coffee: Since, as noted earlier, I drew the line on ingesting actual poison.

As I had (surprisingly) not finished any of my meal (the corned beef lay forlornly on my plate next to the disintegrated cabbage and canned potatoes) the waiter asked if I needed a takeout box. I asked for antacid pills instead. He seemed offended. 

The bill was another bone of contention. I had to pay almost $50 for this meal experiment. Outrage could not adequately express my feelings as I counted my friend’s bills onto the plate. 

Before I left, the waiter gave me a survey that included several questions related to my dining experience. At the end of the survey, it asked: what were the chances of my 1) returning, and 2) recommending the restaurant to a friend.

I answered that alas, I would not be returning (I could get a doctor’s permission slip if required), and 2) I would recommend the restaurant to any friend who was trying to end a relationship. One visit here and the man/woman would be rushing out the door declaring that they were through! The only risk was them filing a police report for attempted murder.

The next day, my friend asked me about my experience and how I would rate the restaurant. I told her:

1)    I was giving the restaurant a rating of 1 star - only because the rating system wouldn't allow me to rate 0.

2)    She owed me a real meal. I would even accept a dinner at Mom's.