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| - The reservations were for 16 people, that turned out to be asking for too much. The place advertised itself as a restaurant, and the exterior suggested that was the case. How I would describe it would be: "Toronto's most tolerable sport's bar." Imagine Spice route, but where all of the yuppies wore jerseys instead of suits.
Maybe they weren't yuppies at all..more like middle-aged professionals. Muppies?
Plasma screens decked the halls like it was Christmas, really made me wonder why they bothered to decorate the place at all. There's about five girls by the door, and ten waitresses working the floor. All of them wearing cheap black tube-like dresses, it really did feel like Spice Route, only louder.
I only saw one blonde Woman roaming about in a zebra print shirt, probably the manager. When I asked her for a serviette, she didn't seem to understand my request. "What is your definition of a serviette?" She asked.
"Something to place on my lap" I responded.
She unfolded a napkin made from recycled paper and placed it on my lap. "There you go!"
"How industrious." Resisting the urge to strangle her, I smile.
I had the Blackened Basa fillet with rice, and Gyozo (dumplings), it exceeded my very low expectations. The music was unbearable, I had to use my outside voice. I was at such an intimate distance to my friend when speaking to her, it was almost..umm, intimate.
Don't get the Alfredo, regardless however your server praises it.
I almost swallowed my fork from the sudden bursts from vivacious reactions of the sports fans at the bar.
If it weren't for the company, I'd probably..well, there's a lot of probability there lets just say.
I paired my meal with a raspberry cocktail, the drink was fine, the raspberries were revolting.
Joey, the name of the bastard child of an one night fling between King Street West pretentiousness, and Bay Street's desperate attempt to appear as if the people who worked there were real human beings.
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