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  • This place is awful. Don't be confused by the fact that the building looks pretty cool, and the 7 layer chocolate cake is pretty damn good. Because the service is TERRIBLE. I went in with a friend for an after-dinner coffee and dessert. A simple enough order, right? WRONG. We were ignored even though the diner was completely empty except the four Walking Dead extras dressed in their finest 50s attire that were sloughing around pretending to be waiters. After what seemed like an eternity, one zombie caught a glimpse of what must have been a shadow of a memory from their human life and listlessly shuffled forward, to take our order. While zombie #1 was making the coffees, zombie #2 reanimated, producing a haunting utterance which we took as the closest thing to an inquiry of any further desires. We asked to be served a slice of chocolate cake. She stared at us dumbfounded, the life in her eyes gone now. "Oh...He cuts the cakes," she grunted. You can't cut cakes? We're not drilling to the center of the earth. We're just asking that you slide a piece of thin metal through a piece of soft pastry. But fine. Maybe there's a process that the rest of the human race is simply not privy to about the intricacies of cake separation and distribution. When we were finally served, zombie #1 walks right by a heaping rack of pristine white coffee mugs and elects instead to pour our drinks into paper to-go cups. Paper cups? What the literal fuck?! This isn't freaking rush hour. Its 9:00 PM; we are obviously here to enjoy a little coffee talk over a slice of cake in your otherwise lovely establishment like normal non-dead humans do. Finally, the master of cake slicing has freed up a moment of his precious time to slice on our behalf. He walks past a stack of perfectly good desert plates, grabs a to-go box for the cake, and OH HELL NAH! We ain't going nowhere! Put our cake on a plate, mother trucker! I get it. This is a 50s establishment, and you're just trying to create an authentic experience. And us being a Latina and an African American...we should have known better. Our kind ain't welcome in these parts. Maybe we should have used the back door.
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