rev:text
| - We arrived about 6:30 pm for my sister's birthday dinner. It wasn't as busy for Saturday, with the help of the rain. Other than the sirloin steak, everything was the same. Guess it was chicken night: chicken wings, fried chicken, roasted chicken, bbq chicken. And of course the ever wonderful side dishes: corn, mashed potatoes, gravy, Brussel sprouts, spinach and smoked ham (which were Sandy, they should have washed the spinach several times). Salad bar with the normal sides and the desserts with ratchet kids poking the chocolate fountain.
So I asked the gentlemen working the grill for a medium rare steak. No surprise there, he pokes and prods, but to my dismay when I get to the table and slice into the low grade steak, again a perfect medium well. I know this place is in the east side of town and it shows in customer service and the integrity of how they make the food. I didn't even want to touch the plated desserts knowing the fact these ratchet ass kids stick their dirty ass fingers in the chocolate, who knows if they sucked on the pineapple and tossed it back in the bowl, cause quite honestly, that's what it looked like. I just decided to stick with butter pecan ice cream, I mean who wouldn't, it's enclosed so the person who works the dessert station has total control of serving!
Other than the fact it was raining outside, and an older gentleman knocked out into a seizure, dinner with the family was okay. Our server, a bit on the slower side on picking up dirty plates and refilling drinks, understandable that there were 8 adults, 2 teens, a child, and an infant. And a couple other tables to service. But half the time, our server wasn't even seen. Knowing the fact this is Vegas, with the large selection of better buffets to go to, it wasn't my choice to come to this ratchet restaurant, for that price of $15 and some change per person, I'd stuck to the strip, Main Street Station isn't bad on Saturdays. At least there, drinks aren't a separate price and they have sea food on the menu. Again, I wasn't in charge, it wasn't my birthday.
|