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| - And now, a dramatic reading of a real breakup letter, to a real restaurant. **
My Dearest Terroni,
It's been a wonderful 10 years. We've been together much longer than I could expect any relationship to last. I've always taken a Pete Doherty approach to relationships - fuck forever: I tell my friends, if I can have a solid 10 years with one person, that's a great run and more than anyone can ask for these days. So it's been a blast, but regrettably it's time for me say goodbye.
We've certainly had our ups and downs. In fact, it's been quite turbulent. Loyalty is one of my specialties and sticking by you throughout was a true test of this loyalty.
"But it's so pretentious, the no substitutions policy at Terroni! It's barbaric!" they'd declare. No matter - I continued to namedrop you when friends sought out birthday and other celebratory dinner venues. I fiercely defended your refusal to allow any changes to your "the way we intend food to be served" menu.
"But they refuse to take a reservation for my group unless it's for more than 6 people, between 5-6pm, and an odd-numbered day in June with Scorpio rising and Mars in Cancer." Just go, I'd say. The wait will be worth it, and you never really have to wait THAT long.
"But they're closed on Sundays. What kind of restaurant closes on Sundays?" That's why there are three locations, I'd say. Make the trek to Yonge and St. Clair and don't worry about it. It'll be worth it.
"But they refuse to cut my pizza into slices!" OK, you've got me there. But isn't the pizza great?
I could only afford to visit your locations 3-4 times a month, but I was loyal to you for nearly ten years. Your reign as top dog in my restaurant black book ended last night at approximately 8:33pm ET.
We called you on Friday to inquire about a reservation for fifteen people on a Sunday. You told us you didn't take reservations, but to call ahead and you'd start preparing our table. "It'll be fine," you lied. "Just come on in."
6:55pm ET: Your hostess took our names down and my friend, who was celebrating his 30th birthday that day and had impressively coerced his "I don't go north of Bloor" collection of friends into gathering at Yonge and St. Clair, told us the wait wouldn't be long, but looked visibly anxious.
7:35pm ET: Your manager told us "It won't be long now - there's a large party that's already paid and we're just waiting for them to leave. Should be any moment now - no more than five minutes." This was the last update we received as we all stood crowding the front entrance and watched table after table have their name called.
8:00pm ET: At this point everyone was antsy, having fasted for the entire day in anticipation of our celebratory feast. A few of us ordered coffees at the bar and the server told us, "We're preparing a sweet table for you." A few people asked for an update, and the hostess/manager told us that she wouldn't ask the large party to hurry or leave - fine. We asked her to entice them with a round of drinks on us - perhaps they could move their party to the bar? She refused.
8:33pm ET: I hovered and seethed. How was it that nearly an hour had passed since the "we should be seating you within 5 minutes" update, with not so much as an apology, an appeasement or even an amendment to the original promise. So nearly 90 minutes of waiting in total. My issue wasn't with the length of time waited (we knew we'd have to wait) but the way we were treated.
Then there was a small altercation with the hostess/manager that I shan't repeat because it made me so angry. Let's just say it involved some interference by famished and flustered patrons, the utterance of "Don't talk to my customers. That's my job." and further ignoring.
It's that sort of "fuck you" attitude that I don't appreciate, and finally led our group to pick up and take our business elsewhere. I should have heeded the telling sign that only three reviews had been written on this location in all of 2009, and none of them positive.
Never again, Terroni.
I have a new Italian boyfriend now and he'll happily prep southern-style, home cooked food for me to my preferences. It'll be at a fraction of the inflated cost without an extra helping of pretension and gestapo-like enforcement. He'll let me dip my bread in olive oil AND balsamic vinegar if I want to, goddammit, he'll put parmagiano reggiano on any dish I want, not just the ones that the chef thinks should have it, AND he'll cut my pizza into fucking slices.
With love and fondness,
Kat F.
** YTMND reference (watch with volume): http://youmakemetouchyourhandsforstupidreasons.ytmnd.com
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