After yesterday's awful dinner at a restaurant called Van Gogh (capitalized "V" is intentional; that's the restaurant's name), I'll never go back.
I'd been there twice before. The food wasn't all that bad, though it was a bit pricey. The first time I went, which must have been barely two months ago, the restaurant was still spanking new. I had a Caesar salad, which was quite nicely done (parmesan cheese sliced paper-thin, not grated), and a very tasty spaghetti bolognese.
The next time I went, however, the Caesar salad was no longer available, and though I tried to order a calzone, I was told it wasn't available, either. I went for a quesadilla (Korean style, of course) and cheese pizza (they billed it as a "pizza margherita," which was laughable); both were fine, though served without much care. I felt as though the wait staff had already decided I was to be marginalized-- a feeling I don't get at the typical Korean restaurant here. It was French snootiness, but with Koreans standing in for the French.
The lack of available menu items and the sub-par service that greeted me on that occasion should have been a warning. But stupidity, like hope, springs eternal, so yesterday evening I decided I'd give Van Gogh another try.
It was worse than ever. I was ignored by the wait staff until I pushed the goofy little call button on my table. I once again discovered that half the menu items were not available. "We're going to be reprinting the menu," the waitress said, sheepishly. I ordered the quesadilla-- without onions this time-- and got my spaghetti bolognese. I also ordered a Coke.
Ten minutes later, I was still waiting for utensils and my Coke. Not long after that, everything arrived at once-- quesadilla appetizer and spaghetti, swiftly followed by the Coke. No eye contact from the server. Perfunctory dialogue instead of the expected twenty-something perkiness. I don't think I'm being too much of a grumpy old man to say the service sucked the ass of a 90-year-old, HIV-positive, bull-raped grandmother. By the end of my dinner, I knew I'd be filing for divorce from the place.
And you know... I couldn't even vouch for the food this time. It tasted fine on the way in last night, but today, all goddamn day, I've had some nasty-ass runs. Fuck, that's inconvenient when you're trying to teach three hours in a row. Thank Jeebus for ten-minute breaks between classes.
My asshole's about empty now, having heaved and gagged since 6:30 this morning. But even emptier than my asshole is my heart: broken by Van Gogh.
FUCK Van Gogh!
Monday, November 14, 2005