| rev:text
| - Bad enough to be thrown out of a restaurant -- but to be thrown out because the owner/chef screwed up both our entrees and threw a fit when we pointed it out? Wow.
We got there around 7 on a Tuesday. There was no one there. No one at all. As we walked in, we passed a board that listed about a half-dozen specials -- but with no descriptions, and the writing wasn't completely legible. At least, I don't think Chicken Przysmyszl is a thing. So when the waitress came to take our order, we asked her to list the specials.
She couldn't, apologizing that it was her first day ever as a waitress. Fair enough. She went away and came back to tell us the specials were tilapia and stuffed shells. Period. We asked for details. She had to go back and ask again. (Note: We don't blame her. Why wouldn't the owner prepare her?) All that brought was that the tilapia was pan-seared in garlic oil. Nothing about sides, nothing about the shells. The waitress was obviously getting no help at all.
My wife ordered the penne florentine; I ordered the "ten breaded shrimp." Both came with salads, which were nothing special, and one roll each. Oddly, the rolls were slicked down with something wet but tasteless all over the soft crust.
The waitress came out to ask my wife if she wanted meatballs with her penne. No, she said, puzzled; she wanted the sausage listed on the menu.
Then the entrees come out. My wife's? A cup or so of penne and a splash of red sauce forming an atoll around an empty middle of the plate. Mine? Rice pilaf, fine; the "mixed vegetables" was broccoli and broccoli; and ... eight shrimp.
My wife asked about her sausage -- and for another look at the menu. Sure enough, penne florentine was supposed to be penne with Italian sausage, spinach, pine nuts and a garlic wine sauce -- nothing at all like what she got. And, yes, the menu clearly said "Ten" shrimp. The waitress went off to the kitchen.
Out comes the chef. He glares at my wife's plate -- she's eaten a couple of noodles while waiting -- and says "Oh, so you decided to eat that." No, she says, she wants the penne florentine she ordered. Then he turns to me. It's supposed to be eight shrimp, he says. The menu says "ten," I reply.
"That's a typo," he says.
(Side note: Typo? "Eghit" is a typo for "eight." "Ten?" Not.)
My wife, joking, says that's not a typo, that's bait-and-switch. (She was smiling when she said it. But, I must also point out, she was technically correct.)
The chef grabs both our plates off the table and starts shouting about how it's not bait and switch and we don't want to eat there. He keeps yelling that it's a typo. I say something like "who are you to yell at us because you got our orders wrong?"
"I'm the owner," he says.
"Not for long, at this rate," I say.
As we walk out, he's still yelling. "We don't want you in here!"
As it happens, the half a shrimp I got to eat before he ripped my plate away was tasty, and my wife says the tomato sauce that shouldn't have been on her plate was pleasantly spicy. But, no, I don't think we'll be going back.
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