| rev:text
| - I'm going to tell you the end of this restaurant horror story and then you can decide for yourself if you'd like to read the rest or have had enough.
Ready?
As my friend and I are exiting Mallorca, the manager, who is shoveling food into his face at the bar, turns and says "Sorry for the trouble girls..." and spits his food all over us.
Now, let's bring it back to the beginning, if you're so inclined.
Upon recommendations, a passion for Spanish cuisine and armed with a groupon, my friend and I decided to try Mallorca last Saturday evening.
We were greeted by eager, formal wait staff and were promptly seated. The dining room was ugly, out dated, and several shades of dark puke green. The plaster had multiple holes and the wall paper was water damaged and peeling away.
Aesthetics aside, we ordered the Sangria right away from hearing wonderful things and we were not disappointed.
For an appetizer we ordered the special that day, octopus. It arrived quickly. It wasn't bad. I've had better, but it tasted fresh and seemed to be carefully prepared and the presentation was eye catching.
For our main course, I badly desired the Paella Valencia. As a long time fan of Spanish/South American culinary specialties, I was dying for a good paella!
Our Paella Valencia arrived quickly. Excited about the paella, we barely noticed the small dish of random vegetables and the dish of potato chips they placed on the table (ummm thanks... how classy...and authentic...). As we scooped paella onto our plates and eagerly began to dig in, I barely had time to fully absorb the blandness of the dish when I noticed a man's HAIR pressed into my chorizo.
I flagged over the bus boy who was leaning miserably against the wall.
"Hi, um, I have a hair in my Paella."
Bus boy: "Oh! Um. Let me get your waiter."
Our waiter promptly marched over and began collecting all of our dishes. I tried to speak to him, "I'm extremely surprised to find this hair in the food."
Waiter in his strong accent, "Yes, ma'am, disappointing. But these things happen."
Wait. What?
"Yes, I realize these "things" can happen, but it shouldn't, not in this fine restaurant." But he was gone before I could fully defend myself.
Then we waited. And waited. And waited. No one came out to apologize. No one asked us if we needed anything.
So I flagged the bus boy over again.
"Hi, is your manager around?"
Bus boy: "Yes."
Pause.
"Do you want me to get him?" No. I just want to know where he is.
Me: "Um. Yes, please get him."
The manager visits us for the first and ONLY time. He greets us with a look that says "What do you want?" I explained our little problem to him.
Manager: "These things happen. "
Seriously? SERIOUSLY?
Me: "Look, your restaurant comes highly recommended. I had high expectations and did not expect to find a hair in my paella..."
Practically interrupting me he continues "Yes, we have a fine restaurant. I have been in the business many years. These things just happen."
Me (getting annoyed now with the lack of apology): "Do they wear hair nets in the kitchen?"
Manger: "Yes, of course. Besides, we have no women in the kitchen."
SERIOUSLY?
Not only is that SEXIST, I had to inform him that is was NOT a woman's hair, but rather a short black hair that turned gray on the end, much like his own hair, and that it was PRESSED INTO MY CHORIZO WHICH I SCOOPED OUT OF THE PAELLA FROM UNDER RICE.
But, he clearly didn't want to hear it and walked away mumbling something that sounded like "I'm disappointed."
Then our second paella arrived.
Our waiter apologized (finally) for the hair, only to proceed to tell us that "This can happen easily. You could lift up your napkin and a hair could fall in."
Ugh...Am I out of line to hope and expect that wouldn't happen? Is there some ninja going around and hiding hair all over the restaurant? Do you have a shaggy dog folding your napkins?
The lobster, scallops, tiny micro sized shrimp all tasted the same: bland, frozen, overcooked, boring. The rice had no flavor and looked remarkably like the boxed paella rice that Goya sells. The chicken was dangerously undercooked- hard and pink. Needless to say, we had no appetite after all of this.
It wasn't hard to flag my actual waiter over this time. He had been standing in a corner ten feet away from our table with other waiters staring and pointing at us and talking about us in Spanish. Even if the paella was decent, we couldn't eat it while being stared at.
Waiter "Would you like me to box this?"
Me: "No. Just the check."
With a surprising twist, our waiter returned and informed us that this delightful meal would be on the house and then presented us with two shots of some sweet liquor.
We left our waiter a rather generous tip and got up to leave, feeling slightly vindicated.
We were chatting about the possibility of returning, when we met our manager at the bar on our exit...
Mallorca, you finally blew it when your manager blew his food on us.
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