Thursday, January 14. A Painful Case. It's the standard stance of restaurant critics to tell all, say what needs to be said, without regard as to whether doing so does more harm than good. Perhaps because I've been at this so long, I am uncomfortable with that idea. (Although I'm sure some restaurateurs may be surprised to hear it.) I don't write many outright negative reviews, and almost never do so if the restaurant is little-known.
Tonight I went to an establishment which, if I named it, would be hard for me to write frankly about. The restaurant is so terrible that in my four dinners there, it's never come close to providing even the minimum performance one expects from a restaurant. In my old 100-point rating system, in which I gave a restaurant fifty points just for being open, this one would get a fifty--no more. It can only be reviewed by anecdote.
I have kept going back because certain qualities of the place seemed to indicate genuine, honest effort on the part of the owner. He has spent a good deal of money on a very interesting building in a neighborhood with good possibilities in the future. He's friendly and hospitable. But he has a big problem. He has no idea what people want from a restaurant. From the way his establishment operates, I wonder whether he even likes going out to dine.
The result of that incompetence is that all of my visits could only be reported in anecdotes. One of them was so zany that it reminded me of an episode of Frasier. Frasier and Niles try to open a fancy French restaurant, but their fantastic lack of skill causes service to degenerate into slapstick.
I had high hopes for this restaurant tonight, because of rumors I heard of a new chef and a new menu. I should have turned around and bolted as soon as I walked in. Like the previous times, the restaurant was all but empty. (In fact, tonight I was the only customer.)
The server recognized me. She had waited on me about twenty-five years ago, at the old Bouligny restaurant. I'm sure she alerted the kitchen. But what could they do if they didn't know what to do? I ordered the soup of the day: potato and leek. When I asked the waitress about it, she said that it was good yesterday. But today? It was a cream soup, and the cream had broken into a slurry. The leeks were very dark in color, and the potatoes had turned brown. On the other hand, the broth was lukewarm. Even the fact that the serving was very large was, in this case, a negative.
Okay. Onward. When I'm in a restaurant whose competence I doubt, I always ask the server what are the safest bets. She recommended the grilled pork loin. An enormous platter of that emerged, with a stuffing-dressing and some cooked beets underneath, and straight boiled cauliflower in a ramekin on the side. I went for the dressing first: cool room temperature! My mind reeled. That might mean the stuff has been sitting out, the temperature in the danger zone. Dressing, one of the most hospitable places for bacteria to grow. In this place, I could easily believe it. As it turned out, the reason it was cold was that it was served on the top plate of a pile next to an open window on this cold night. But the pork wasn't much warmer. It was overcooked, the way your grandmother used to cook pork, hard as a rock and just as juiceless. The beets were in contact with the cold plate, so it was hard to tell what temperature the chef was aiming for. The cauliflower, safe in its own dish, was steaming hot. But it was unseasoned, unless you could call water a seasoning.
"How is everything?" asked the waitress, hopefully. "Cold," I said. "Everything is cold." She was apologetic and took it back. It returned hot, but not good. I ate about fifteen percent of it. I don't eat food I don't enjoy.
The chef came out. "How did you like it?"
"It was. . . okay," I said, not wanting to get into it.
"Well, okay is not what we were aiming for," she said. "What can we do to get it up to great?" She gave no hint that she knew who I am, although I'm certain she did.
"I don't know," I said. I do know, but it would have taken more time to explain than any of us had.
A young man who appeared to be the manager came out. He brought a slice of pie. And then he told me an extremely long story about the restaurant, illustrated with various exhibits.
I paid the check and finally got out of there. I feel terrible for these people. I felt sorry for the food, even. I had a dream about them this night. They must exit this business and do something else that they enjoy.
