In a former life, I worked in an office not far from Dr. Deli and his arisocratic wife.
My colleagues loved the place. I was unmoved.
Dr. Deli violates one of my cardinal rules of dining out: they serve food that I can make at home. Salads? Sandwiches? Soups? Stuff I've been banging out since Home Ec class.
What's unforgiveable is that their food turns out worse than mine. Undercooked pea soup is grany; salad leaves arrive with brown edges, wilting under puckery-sour dressings. Coffee is zombie-grey.
Bread arrives with the standard packets of shelf-stable whipped butter.
I go to take one.
It's already open, and the butter is missing except for a crumb-laden smear in the miniature plastic tub.
They gave me used butter.
They can keep it.
Clearly, Dr. Deli requires better bedside manners.