Tonight I ate at Diner's Remorse...and yes...I regret it. I ate something I shouldn't have...and now I'm paying the check.
What is it about the alluring menu at Diner's Remorse that makes the bitterest pile of ashes look like the sweetest dessert? Their menu designers are geniuses! Evil geniuses, but geniuses nonetheless. Because I ordered...and ordered...and now I am suffering the consequences.
I wish I could have back all the wasted time, money, and energy, that I spent tonight at Diner's Remorse. But I never will get them back. And now I am left alone in this bleak diner...contemplating the waste...the utter, irrevocable waste.
The waitron was so beguiling. "You have to try our three-tier cocoa salad torte." And like a fool, I ordered the torte. And now the flames of regret lick mockingly at my ankles.
Because the glamourous glossy photography of the menu was just an illusion...as the ashes of stark reality clump in my stomach, the realization hits me. I want my money back! I want my time back! I want my energy back!
The waitron cackles. All of those things I want back have been greedily absorbed into the infinite maw of Diner's Remorse...and here I sit, depleted.
There are no other diners. I am alone. I chased the illusion of the candied poppering pears...and now the walls of the pit rise around me.
Ah, yes, I am paying the piper now. A flickering black-and-white television braced against the wall is playing that old TV commercial: "I Can't Believe I Ate the Whole Thing." That is the only thing that TV ever plays in here.
I thought that the Artichoke Fries would make me happy.
They didn't.
And so...I signed away...everything! for what turns out to be a pile of charred charcoal. Or, in other words, charred coal or charcoal. I poke around in the ashes. I try to derive sustenance from the aroma of the smouldering embers. But there is no hope in that.
The waitron lied. It's that simple. The waitron told me that the Mint Gelatin Skins were Incredible. And I believed the waitron. And I know the waitron is laughing up its sleeves.
What is the decor like in this place? Bleak of course. Tired and wilted and clammy. The linens are clammy. I don't like this place. Fluorescent light like soiled laundry. The stainless steel is stained.
I'm going to leave soon.
And so, as I cover the remains of my meal with the funeral pall of my napkin, I can only warn you away from this place. But I know you will never believe me. You see only the sizzle...not the stake!
I would give this place zero stars if I could. But the code of the Restaurant Critic does not allow for that. Perhaps I will give it five stars...so that you will think the place overrated...and thus avoid it!
And so, consumed with remorse, I give Diner's Remorse five heaps of ashes.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Panica: The Anxiety-Attack Place
So the other day I decided to have lunch at Panica, the Anxiety-Attack Place. It's a theme restaurant, and in this case the theme is panic attacks. Interesting, huh? You have to go to a place like Panica in the proper state of mind. I mean, you have to be feeling pretty vulnerable and washed-out and on the verge of a panic attack to even begin to appreciate this eatery. And so I waited till I was tipping over into an anxiety attack before I made my way to Panica.
The exterior of the place is meant to induce panic in you from the beginning. If you're looking for a cozy place to dine, Panica is not it. The entrance is imposing and brutal, with gigantic oppressive columns and a blunt stairway. The heart starts rabbiting from the moment you view the building.
Inside, everything is conceived to make you jittery. The music is terrible synthesizer-based "new wave" music from the last century. The treble is turned way up and everything sounds tinny and distorted. The music has that annoying "energetic" sound that I despise. I wanted to find the nearest exit, but I had to dine there...so you wouldn't have to. Unless, of course, you're looking for an anxiety-attack theme restaurant, which, judging by how crowded the dining room was (of course!), many others apparently are.
The host at his lectern was commited to making you feel nervous. In a fascinating twist, the host was not high-strung and impatient. In fact, his ability to give you a case of the nerves was based on how plodding, molasses slow he was in everything he said and did. In fact, he didn't even acknowledge me for around one to two hours. I stood in the lobby of Panica, feeling more and more clammy by the minute, pummeled by the awful keyboards and drum machines and hyperactive vocals. I walked over to him after the second hour and asked for a table. "I'm sorry, but...well, let me go in the back and see if anything's available." He worked kinks out of his neck as he loped back to the kitchen.
Another hour passed. A trap-door of panic opened up. And somehow I suppose the host was able to detect that, because he re-appeared at the moment my anxiety attack was revving up.
"This way, sir," he said. I followed him through the press of a dazed, stupefied crowd. My table was full of stains and made me fear some food-borne illness would waft up into my system from its surface. I asked him to clean the table, but somehow the anxiety had lowered the volume and projection of my voice until it became so weak that the host could not hear me. "Your server will be back later tonight. Give him at least three or four hours."
When the server finally arrived, I was wringing my hands, passing my hand across my brow, and unconsciously tearing the cloth napkins into shreds. Fears of imminent madness or sudden death pierced my mind. The waiter arrived.
"Would you like a large coffee with a shot of adrenaline?" the server asked.
The waitron left for the coffee and I perused the menu. The print was extremely small, and it was difficult to read with the hysterical eyestrain I was presently suffering from. The descriptions of the dishes made no sense and confused me. Try as I might, the words wouldn't connect. When the server returned, around an hour later, I was weak with hunger and anxiety.
"Anything look good?" the server said.
"What would you suggest?" I asked. Again, my voice was extremely weak and the waitron couldn't hear me. I raised my voice...which took great effort. "What's good?"
The server said, "You'll love the bottomless bowl of creamed corn."
Bottomless. As in...bottomless pit. The panic escalated when I heard the word bottomless and thought of what it meant...THE ABYSS.
The creamed corn was flavorful, not too salty or runny, and had some exceedingly large kernels, which I thought was a generous touch on the part of the chef. I usually enjoy my creamed corn hot instead of tepid, but otherwise the dish was excellent.
The panic subsiding, I asked for the dessert menu. "Ah," said the waitron, "you've ridden out another panic attack! Now you get your prize!"
The Panic-Lover's Blondie was crisp and tangy. By the time I finished it, the anxiety attack had been replaced by a feeling of calm and relief...just the sort of mood to accompany an excellent fried dessert.
Overall, Panica delivers what it promises--adventurous cuisine in a nerve-shattering ambience. If you like a little anxiety with your creamed corn, Panica is the place for you. And so, I hyperventilatingly award Panica Five Brown Paper Bags!
The exterior of the place is meant to induce panic in you from the beginning. If you're looking for a cozy place to dine, Panica is not it. The entrance is imposing and brutal, with gigantic oppressive columns and a blunt stairway. The heart starts rabbiting from the moment you view the building.
Inside, everything is conceived to make you jittery. The music is terrible synthesizer-based "new wave" music from the last century. The treble is turned way up and everything sounds tinny and distorted. The music has that annoying "energetic" sound that I despise. I wanted to find the nearest exit, but I had to dine there...so you wouldn't have to. Unless, of course, you're looking for an anxiety-attack theme restaurant, which, judging by how crowded the dining room was (of course!), many others apparently are.
The host at his lectern was commited to making you feel nervous. In a fascinating twist, the host was not high-strung and impatient. In fact, his ability to give you a case of the nerves was based on how plodding, molasses slow he was in everything he said and did. In fact, he didn't even acknowledge me for around one to two hours. I stood in the lobby of Panica, feeling more and more clammy by the minute, pummeled by the awful keyboards and drum machines and hyperactive vocals. I walked over to him after the second hour and asked for a table. "I'm sorry, but...well, let me go in the back and see if anything's available." He worked kinks out of his neck as he loped back to the kitchen.
Another hour passed. A trap-door of panic opened up. And somehow I suppose the host was able to detect that, because he re-appeared at the moment my anxiety attack was revving up.
"This way, sir," he said. I followed him through the press of a dazed, stupefied crowd. My table was full of stains and made me fear some food-borne illness would waft up into my system from its surface. I asked him to clean the table, but somehow the anxiety had lowered the volume and projection of my voice until it became so weak that the host could not hear me. "Your server will be back later tonight. Give him at least three or four hours."
When the server finally arrived, I was wringing my hands, passing my hand across my brow, and unconsciously tearing the cloth napkins into shreds. Fears of imminent madness or sudden death pierced my mind. The waiter arrived.
"Would you like a large coffee with a shot of adrenaline?" the server asked.
The waitron left for the coffee and I perused the menu. The print was extremely small, and it was difficult to read with the hysterical eyestrain I was presently suffering from. The descriptions of the dishes made no sense and confused me. Try as I might, the words wouldn't connect. When the server returned, around an hour later, I was weak with hunger and anxiety.
"Anything look good?" the server said.
"What would you suggest?" I asked. Again, my voice was extremely weak and the waitron couldn't hear me. I raised my voice...which took great effort. "What's good?"
The server said, "You'll love the bottomless bowl of creamed corn."
Bottomless. As in...bottomless pit. The panic escalated when I heard the word bottomless and thought of what it meant...THE ABYSS.
The creamed corn was flavorful, not too salty or runny, and had some exceedingly large kernels, which I thought was a generous touch on the part of the chef. I usually enjoy my creamed corn hot instead of tepid, but otherwise the dish was excellent.
The panic subsiding, I asked for the dessert menu. "Ah," said the waitron, "you've ridden out another panic attack! Now you get your prize!"
The Panic-Lover's Blondie was crisp and tangy. By the time I finished it, the anxiety attack had been replaced by a feeling of calm and relief...just the sort of mood to accompany an excellent fried dessert.
Overall, Panica delivers what it promises--adventurous cuisine in a nerve-shattering ambience. If you like a little anxiety with your creamed corn, Panica is the place for you. And so, I hyperventilatingly award Panica Five Brown Paper Bags!
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