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| - Caveat fudium. (Let the foodie beware.)
If you've never been here, don't let this review stop you from trying the Inn's fare.
Sure. ALL restaurants---even exclusive, uptown, celebrity-chef-owned---have off-days, and the occasional off-entree, too. If their patrons have deep enough pockets, that won't stop them from continuing to dine there. And even more affordably-priced restaurants have their loyal, forgiving customers. I happen to be one of them. And haven't most of us had one or two home-prepared culinary disasters ourselves? Were we forced to throw in the kitchen towel and toss out the stove because family members adamantly refused to continue eating in?
On arriving, 30 or so feet from the entry was an outdoor spit billowing smoke and filling the air with a wonderfully intoxicating aroma. The attendant, busy basting a whole pig, touted it as a favorite choice that was slow roasted for a minimum of 10 hours. I'd made dozens of pork butts that never took more than 3 or 4 oven-hours, and each resulted in flavorful, succulent tenderness every time. This was, after all, the whole pig, so everything being equal, I supposed it WOULD require an especially longer cooking time. This popular spit-roasted pork would be my entree choice for sure.
Inside, walking along the cafeteria-style stretch of varied side dishes I spotted their renowned potato pancakes. These---of course---would make the perfect accompaniment. I'd eaten lightly that day in anticipation for this visit and was ready to chow down. Based on written reviews, word-of-mouth, WVIZ cookbook segments that featured this restaurant, and the Inn's own self-promoting print advertising, I was CERTAIN that I'd have a deliciously memorable experience.
It couldn't have been worse. Either my two choices were strokes of extraordinarily bad luck OR all the adoring fans haven't a clue as to what good food should taste like OR I have the most exacting, elevated, finely-tuned palate since Escoffier.
The pork's texture was as close as pork can get to that of sopping wet, stringy floor mop. It had no true form or shape---just a soft mush-like mound. (That didn't stop the server from plopping the limp mass onto my plate, however, which of course I wasn't aware of until I took the first bite.) As far as any discernable flavor there was none to speak of. It was as if after roasting, it was placed into a pot of plain tap water and left to soak for days. And the potato pancakes? I'm a better than average scratch cook and am very familiar with thoughtful food preparation and how these foods should taste. Not even CLOSE to being freshly made. In flavor? What I'd expect an ancient tree root to taste like. They were d-a-a-a-y-s old---maybe even a week or more. If previously frozen, they were unmarked and had remained long forgotten in some freezer (by-passing customary date rotation), were just recently discovered, and I was served from that thawed and reheated batch that may have gone as far back as the Reagan era.
Except for a few nibbles from the ordinary-yet-at-least-edible salad, this meal (actually just 2 bites of each to confirm my disbelief) was one of the two worst meals I've ever had---and I've had thousands in my lifetime. Most were VERY good, plus many excellent. Had the roast pork and potato pancakes been new additions to their menu I might never have considered writing this, but they weren't. This was a case of culinary criminality, and I'd been a taste bud/eye witness to felony food abuse.
Instead of taking that plate straight back to the cafeteria line, rather than disrupting the enjoyable, upbeat conversations we were all having at the table, I kept my unexpected disappointment to myself---especially since two continued eating their pork and I didn't want them feeling uncomfortable. My once-ravenous appetite had abruptly shut down and the thought of explaining these issues to an employee might make me feel worse. For the first time ever, I was experiencing F.F.T.H., (pronounced f-f-t-h), which stands for Fell For The Hype. I had no desire to eat ANYTHING else they prepared. If these two customer favorites were this unappetizing why on earth would I ever consider something the customers liked less. At the very least, I should have requested a refund, but I didn't. And, in all fairness, I'm sure I would have received it.
I'm just a nice, honest person who looked forward to an outstanding meal, but instead, was served something inedible. They're probably really good people here at the Inn, and maybe all their key players were off that day. But when you're going through the line, do yourself a favor. Before they put the stuff on the plate, point to it first, look them straight in the eye, and ask them if Gramma's recipe and handling instructions were followed word for word. If yes---cross your fingers---and hope for the best . . . that they're so well-known for.
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