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| - I wanted to love Cure. I really did.
In general, the rustic setting with gorgeous charcuterie, well-executed pastas, and stunning drinks is my jam. What can I say, I'm an upwardly-mobile, early-80s-born millennial that regularly browses Thrillist, Eater, and worships at the alter of Anthony Bourdain. In short, if it's a porky, smoky delight, I'm going to freaking love it.
And the food? The food was outstanding. The large salumi platter was everything I could have hoped for - a perfectly preserved platter of the cast of Orwell's "Animal Farm". Yes, please and thank you.
Ah, but that's where the problem lies. Animal Farm.
"All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others."
Or should I say waitresses.
Wow, was our service from our primary waitress bad. Uncomfortably awful. And to be realistic, it's difficult to enjoy your meal when you are made to feel like you are clearly inconveniencing the staff by daring to be present in their restaurant. I've never experienced anything like this before and I've been to plenty of restaurants of similar caliber. I can handle snobby. Hell, sometimes I can be snobby. I can handle pretentious - I have strong opinions on types of whiskey and balsamic vinegar. My brother and I regularly approach Fraiser/Niles Crane levels of obnoxiousness. But this, this was something else entirely. It was a unique hybrid of middle school A-lister discovering a chubby band geek at her lunch table and an IT director with aspergers feigning hospitality while also wanting to stab someone with a bread knife.
In short, I think Chef Severino's vision for the food was artfully executed at Cure and I commend the kitchen staff for everything they've done. The front of house (well, only one waitress in particular), I will leave with a single word...
Yikes.
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