| rev:text
| - Do you want to feel like a number or like a person?
I felted like the staff in Gusto is felling too comfortable with their status, reputation, and amount of people visiting them, that they could be loosen up in excellence, service, and food tastiness.
The installations are great: two levels of an eclectic decoration that could easily be found in a Brooklyn trendy spot: two floors of open spaces in where you can appreciate who is where, doing what, but not hearing a thing of the things the important person in front of you is saying... Although, the ceiling made of windows must be astonishingly memorable on a full moon night if you go there for a private party or a rainy day.
For moments I felted like pecked at the food would be more appropriated that using the cutlery. The clucks, laughs, screams, claps, the 2nd handed information from the tables beside, being able to hear the breath of the people beside, conjugated with the feeling of my vocal cords being stressing too hard, gave me the trip of being part of a hen house.
We arrived there around 6 pm on a Thursday, the first floor was packed, but the Hostess told us we could fit on the 2nd floor. At the 2nd floor they asked us for reservation, they checked us out, and after asking to another person if they were busy, they gave us a mini table in the wooden bench with the Goodyear sign on the top (by the way, by the time we left, they didn't fill all the tables, so I guess they just wanted us to feel lucky enough to get a sit in there...)
When the first guy sat us he saw that when I posed my hand on the table it started moving like crazy, so he gently recommended us not to touch the table (even when he served us water he kind of had the same problem)... I let that go cuz I hopped someone was going to be smart/gentle/considerate enough to put something under the unbalanced table and fix something that could drop things from their guests: NO, they didn't. After we ordered the amazing 1/2 litter of "Pecorino, Villa Angela, Velenosi, '12 Marche", a new waiter noticed the problem on our table and said he would fix it immediately... but again they did NoThInG. The wine was excellent tho, I recommend it 100% because it was like if an Alvarinho and a Vinho Verde would've had a great kid.
The waitress was a sparkling character with nice energy, big shinny eyes decorated with long eyelashes, and a want to be efficient/trendy/modern iPad in hand. She asked us if we wanted bread, which she dropped by after in a paper bag like a messenger pigeon would do.
I wasn't impress by their food menu either. I think they spent more time or resources wine wise.
As an appetizer we ordered the Grilled Octopus. It was escorted by lots of spots of pastes: like kalamata olives, pesto/chimichurri, grilled/smoked red peppers, and lime, on top of some mashed boiled potatoes, with some arugula leafs as well. The tentacles were al dente; the grilled flavor was wonderful when accompanied by a sip of the wine and a bite of the bread passed by all the sauces.
Due to some reviews I read that made me push my husby to go here, I almost asked for the so praised mushroom fettuccine, but after lots of mental disagreements I opted to make my own opinion of any other item, so I ordered the Salmon alla Griglia. When asked which term would I like it to be, I said a medium rare please... However, ohhhh no more please, when I cut it I realized it was almost well done... Arggg.... I don't send back food, but still... If they have iPads how could they have mistaken a term? My husband in font was making signs trying to know the reason why I was making not satisfied faces, so when I kind of signal back to explain why, he was a sweet heart (like sometimes guys are just to avoid trouble) and suggested me to interchange plates.
I ate the 3rd last tiny piece of what they said was a lamb rack specially cooked for Thursdays, but nah, not enough marination, pieces, or tenderness for me to recommend it. Even my husband who told me not to complain about my over cooked fish recognized that the taste of my dish was better than his. He adored the quinoa side. He wasn't even upset when I told the waitress (who finally came to see how everything was) that my fish was way over cooked. She asked to see it, and after recognizing they messed it up, she offered us deserts on the house.
After the general bitter taste, we didn't feel like been there anymore trying to enjoy some free sugar, so we refused the apologetic deserts, and at the moment of paying... Wow, they didn't charge for the Salmon: good touch, but not enough for me to go back, or for tell something good about the treatment.
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