For about 30 seconds I seriously considered joining yelp... but then I didn't.

In a very real sense, Yelp saved humanity, but probably moreso just my humanity amd a life of only eating at my local strip mall pizza joint every weekend.  Although it’s a little less than official to the food writing estab, it’s pretty much my bible.  Where else can I go to get the real low down on the latest hot spots and how the service really was or how the roasted corn and fig compote slathered on a crispy duck toast points with warm butternut squash and poppy seed risotto really tastes (and just in case you haven’t picked up on the sarcasm, that dish I was referring to doesn’t actually exist, nor should it, but it’s something that people would totally order because it’s got a lot of shit in it, it sounds fancy and it’s gonna be expensive; and by people I mean moi.)  So, recently when I Yelped my fancy pants dinner in advance at a very trendy, celebrity restaurant in Atlantic City (and no, it was not Planet Hollywood) in order to see what was in store and I was impressed.  Lots of good reviews and tons of great recommendations; sweet.

So here’s what I would have written after dining at the same restaurant:

The atmosphere: Too nice for me.  Although, since the restaurant is located in Atlantic City, the ambiance noted, “chic, classic”, can take a turn for the worse when lots of little old ladies arrive in their panty hose and JCPenny grandma separates look and the little old men arrive with subdued Hawaiian t-shirts and pleated khaki slacks.  Overall, it really depended on your age and how hard you wanted to try to impress the person across from you.

The food: I find it more than a little disconcerting that there was no salt or pepper available.  I guess in an establishment like this, one is expected to bow down to the Chef and not seek to season to taste.  Overall, the corn soup needed pepper and the steamed clams and mussels were average.

The staff: So, I’m expecting a lot.  Call me Mrs. H, Mrs. I, Mrs. Ghs, Mrs. T, Mrs. A- Mrs. Ndards.  Whatever, I don’t even care.  (Trust me, I really don’t.)  But here’s what I do care about, being treated like this is an extravagance and not just any Friday night.  Seriously.  Recently, my brother hit the nail on the head when he said that he, myself and my sister are the champions of the eavesdrop; so when it comes to food being sent back in a swanky place, it’s like my Bat Signal.  Apparently, the veal chop that the old man at the next table ordered was fatty.  And like any average person would, he probably ate some of it, hell, maybe even a lot of it; but that doesn’t excuse the manager’s response:

Mr. Manager: We could get you a new one…  But it looks like you already have something to eat…  Oh, you got that from someone at the table?...  Well, next time, do me a favor and don’t eat the majority of it because if you do, it’s kinda like, how bad could it have been? 

The old man and his entourage tried to rebut the manager’s comments, but Mr. Manager just patted the guy on the back and walked away.  After the table left, Mr. Waiter (who was also our waiter) called over Mr. Manager to let him know that the table called Mr. Waiter over for one more uproar about the treatment that they received and how this was some of the ‘lousiest’ service they’d had in AC in 30 years and the two of them just laughed.  Giggled and smirked... as though it was nothing.  Well I gotta tell you, it is something.  When you’re droppin’ cold hard cash on a celebrity eating establishment (with the exception of Planet Hollywood… WOAH, total moment of pause here, there’s a Planet Hollywood Casino and Resort?  Ok, what the hell?  An actual hurricane just came by and blew me away… that’s. how. shocked. i. am.) you’re expecting things to be addressed professionally, not by someone out to make a point that you ate some of your fatty veal chop.  And also, Mr. Waiter, don’t inquire about the food by asking, “It was very, very good, right?”  It’s like, hey, I am the one who gives the “very, very good” rating so please don’t put words in my judgmental mouth.

So, the moral of the story is, I get much more out of dragging the kids and my husband out early on a Saturday morning to get local cheese, blackberries and eggplant than I get poshing it up at some "too full of itself" fine dining establishment.  Cheers to buying local and buying fresh!



Ahhh... comfort and awesomeness.