When I looked at the prices on the menu I felt like a year-to-date long-term owner of YELP stock. I was in shock for a few minutes and thankfully recovered enough to decide on one of the unimaginative and equally unpalatable handheld items, or what these hip kids call sandwiches nowadays.
As an African American male with absolutely no ancestors involved in the Trans-Atlantic slave trade, I was made to feel like I needed reparations after the prices charged for my meal and IPA draft.
The French Dip was a smidgeon better than what you could get at an Arby's here in Lansing, though in defense of the Home of the Horsey Sauce, at least with them you get some cheese of the genus chemical-byproduct with your sandwich, my French Dip was bare at Therapy.
The potato chips I received were indistinguishable from Lays' Truffle Oil "recipe".
I've been waited on by private chefs in Avignon, France's finest La Mirande, and have had widowers of late aristocrats in Monaco commit infanticide in front me and on their knees begging to have children from my superior gene-stock, so I know how to live and to enjoy.
This place is the loud and obnoxious, full of fools and their gold (I'll admit, I was one for one night).
Verdict: Inadequate.