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| - Tamari. You're slipping, girl. I've been there a dozen times, starting within a month of opening.
The odd manager, Chris, looks like a used car salesman with his baggy Wranglers and Pennysaver sports coat. He has a militant attitude about him that cuts like a knife through the otherwise refined yet laidback atmosphere.
The food is exquisite and the drinks magnificent. But the edge? That precise, esoteric, bravado, the ego behind not only creatively crafted food that's also perfectly executed and promptly served? It's long, long gone. It's been replaced by "coasting on our merits" and "oh, you need another water fill up?" The polite servers have been replaced by chubby, pissed off hipsters. I don't like my happy hour with a side of your hopes and dreams deferred.
I predict subtle, if any updated menus in the future, followed by a rapidly advancing older clientele inhabiting the emaciated corpse of a once top notch dining experience.
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