No Michelin Star Here

If I could give it zero stars I would. The funny thing is the name of the restaurant should have been a warning in itself. It was called the Michelin Star Inn. It didn’t really have a Michelin star; that false claim was just a cheap marketing ploy. I wonder on reflection if any inns have Michelin stars. They’re too homey for fine dining, but still, I fell for it. That makes me feel idiotic, knowing that their laughable promotional idea worked on me. I thought I was reasonably intelligent, but I’ve questioned my own brain power since that day.

I walked inside and there was nothing immediately alarming in the surroundings. First impressions can be misleading. They’d hidden a lot of dirt in the dark corners, pretty lights distracting your eyes, so you didn’t get acquainted with them until you were already sitting down - and you’d committed yourself to seeing the meal through.

I was seated at a table beside the toilets. No one hopes to eat in a location where urinary and faecal movements are audible through the neighbouring door. My stomach isn’t easily turned, so I didn’t bother asking to be relocated. I thought if I overlooked it, the meal would make up it. Their menu was overloaded with options. They used print so small you would have required an eyeglass to see it. I wondered how one kitchen could possibly produce such an array of different meals. Had I given it more thought, I might have walked out then and there, but sadly, I sat on.

My posterior was offended by the uncovered seats. They were made of hard wood, like bar barrels: somewhere designed for perching rather than getting comfortable for the duration of a meal. Still, I didn’t complain. I knew they were trying to create a certain “feel” to the place. It was convincing as an 1800’s era inn. I noticed there were a dangerous number of candles close to the exposed wood. I didn’t know if they were there to create ambience or to keep the electric bill down. In hindsight, I think it must have been the latter. They might have been an unsuitable replacement for heating too.

The waitress approached us, with a worried look, like she was holding her hand out to a rabid dog. She hoped we’d give her a friendly lick rather than tearing off a limb. Maybe she was used to that. Maybe she had good reason to be used to it. She didn’t greet us or ask if we’d had time to look at the menu. She rattled off the specials like she was a child, unwillingly reciting her spellings to her mother. It didn’t inspire me to try any of the daily offers. There was monkfish on the menu, but I knew it would be tough. Never get seafood when you’re too far away from the sea.

My stomach was complaining by then. I’d already been there for the length of a slowly eaten meal and I hadn’t even ordered yet, nor did I feel compelled to order anything in particular. So, I went for the mixed grill. It is hard to get wrong and you are guaranteed a good-sized portion, in my experience. By the time the meal finally appeared, I was considering what I was going to do with my pension, and I’m only thirty-five years old.

I expected it to be piping hot, at least. I could almost forgive a poorly cooked meal if it arrived at a hot temperature, but it was lukewarm. I didn’t bother to alert the waitress to the fact because she had such a bored expression, I knew that sharing anything resembling a complaint would be met with nothing but lethargy. I knew she’d just remove the plate and I mightn’t see another one, if I was lucky. I don’t know which is worse: a bad meal or no meal at all.

I prodded the mushroom with my fork. It looked like it was sweating butter all over the plate, and not in a good way. There was a grey juice coating everything else on the plate. The meat was overcooked. I had a steak knife, but I needed a hacksaw. No, scratch that – a chainsaw. My side of chips was substandard too. They were so pale I wondered if they’d even been introduced to the oil that night.

It was all extremely disappointing; so disappointing, in fact, that I didn’t order dessert. To a glutton like me, that’s like refusing cake on your own wedding day. I deserved it, but I didn’t think my belly deserved to suffer any further. You know a meal has been bad when you find yourself fantasising about your own home cooking instead, and I’m no chef.

I wasn’t asked if I enjoyed my meal when the waitress removed my plate. It was probably a question the staff had been advised to stop asking. My full plate adequately answered the question anyway. It looked much the same as it had when they’d brought it from the kitchen, but rearranged into a new, but no more unappetising formation.

I knew I wouldn’t be leaving a tip. The service was sullen, and that’s a kind description of it. The entire meal was interrupted by draughts of air that came from the bang of the bathroom door as people went in and out in a continuous flow. I’d never realised how often people needed to use the bathroom before. I’d never had a reason to take it under my notice, especially not in a restaurant. You don’t want to be reminded of your baser bodily functions while your palate is doing its refined job. As I said, I have a stomach of steel and I’m not easily turned off, but this was an experience I have no desire to repeat.

I wonder if there are any real chefs employed in the kitchen, or if it’s just a team composed of several stragglers they found on the street. To add insult to injury, they close at nine PM and if you’ve failed to vacate your table at that hour, they upturn unused chairs onto your table. Has there ever been a clearer way of telling someone to get out? What more can I say. I won’t be hurrying back, but if you decide to proceed (at your own risk) after reading this review, remember to bring your own bottle, own food and own plate. Hell, bring your own pots and pans and offer to make it yourself.