I get no pleasure from writing a negative review. That’s why there are so few of them on this blog. Part of that’s because the internet already has enough snark. Part of that’s because of my own experience.
Working in restaurants is hard. It’s hard to cook. It’s hard to wait tables. It’s HARD.
But what isn’t? I’m a lawyer by day. That’s hard. My wife is a lawyer AND she’s my wife. Talk about hard. If work was fun, they wouldn’t pay you. The fact that your job is hard is not an excuse to do it poorly.
I’ve had bad meals that didn’t upset me. If I pay a teenager a dollar for a McDouble, I’m not expecting life-altering flavor. I’ve gotten overcooked burgers at Chili’s, indifferent spring rolls from Chinese takeout. It happens. It doesn’t alarm me.
But I don’t judge every restaurant on the same curve. If I have to speak into a plaster clown mouth to order my food, I grade on one curve. If I have to sit at a linen tablecloth and speak some French, I grade on another. Why? Because when the price is higher, so are the expectations.
An example. At Ghini’s Café, they market Eggs Provencale as their specialty. A bold claim. An implied promise of exceptional food. I’ve had it many times. It is exceptional food. And for what is, essentially, two eggs on toast, it is expensive. So expectations were correspondingly high. http://www.ghiniscafe.com/page.cfm/menus/breakfast But the first time I ordered it, the poached eggs were overcooked. Not what I was led to expect. A profound disappointment.
What happened next, however, was not. I noted the overcooked eggs to my server. He frowned, apologized, and whisked them away. Before he entered the kitchen, he showed them to the owner. She touched the eggs and frowned, glancing in our direction. Minutes later, my breakfast rearrived. Perfectly done. Another minute, the owner arrived. She apologized. She inquired after my eggs. She was very pleasant.
When the time came to pay the bill, the meal had been comped. Not just mine. Mine, my wife’s, and our daughter’s. With nothing said, the restaurant left the lingering impression that what had happened was a shocking anomaly that deeply disturbed them. Unspoken was the implication that this was a singular event, a humiliation that they would not stand for. Message received. Have I been back? Indeed. Many times.
Why did they go so far out of their way for me? I was not a regular. I carry no weight in the restaurant world. They could have offended me without cognizable consequence. But they didn’t. Why? Because they understand the crucial secret of the restaurant industry.
I am not a professional food writer. I am not paid to critique your restaurant. I will not be coming back, on multiple occasions, to see if you can eventually get it right. You get one chance. Is that fair. Oh indeed. Quite fair. Why? Well what does my offer of one chance make me?
The average patron.
I experience restaurants as any real customer would. And the average customer will give you exactly one chance to get it right.
And then they will go down the street.
Jonathan’s Cork is about a block from my house. I ate there last about three or four years ago. In the bar. I had a piece of salmon. It was all right.
My wife and I were childless last Friday. This is rare. We wanted to eat at a place that doesn’t offer crayons or a kid’s menu. Jonathan’s seemed just the thing. If it worked out, it’s close enough that we could be regulars. I am aware that I am the demographic restaurants like this pursue. Young. (Sort of.) Professional. (In a sense.) Will spend money on a good meal. (Definitely.) What restaurant wouldn’t want us as regulars?
Jonathan’s décor is outdated and embarrassingly “eclectic.” The walls are covered with random art that is “Southwesterny” and “Indianish.” I’ll admit it. My wife is Navajo. The casual disregard for her culture in a restaurant with fine dining pretense is alarming. And makes us uncomfortable. But whatever. We’ll live with it if the food is good. The furniture is substandard. The floors are carpeted. The walls are paneled and white. The atmosphere is essentially non-existent. Jonathan’s won’t win you with ambience. That puts pressure on both the food and service.
Jonathan’s menu is, to be blunt, expensive. These are unapologetic prices. If my wife and I had paid for our entire meal, without wine the bill would have been a Benjamin and a half. That doesn’t leave room for error. Prices like that are a promise and an assurance. The finest ingredients. Expertly prepared. Perfect. Just the thing. We couldn’t wait.
The restaurant was about a third full. We were eventually seated. We then waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually a smiling waitress took our drink order. Then we waited.
And waited.
Eventually we ordered our meal, including a Caesar salad to split and a crabcake appetizer. My wife ordered the surf and turf special; lobster tail and filet. I ordered the lamb chops. Rare.
Then we waited some more. Eventually a basket of bread arrived. Not fresh, hot rolls. Not homemade bread. Not locally sourced, great bread. Nope. Not for us. Sliced, store bought bread. That was a surprise. Not a good one.
Eventually the crab cakes arrived. They were good. A bit fishy. But pretty good. I would order them again.
The Caesar salad arrived. It was not good. Store bought, bagged croutons. Pre-grated, bagged parmesan. You know, the pointed, uniform slivers of cheese? A dressing that was way too vinegary without the faintest hint of promised anchovy and garlic. A terrible salad given the price and promise. Sadly, a portent of what would eventually come.
At this point, we had spent over an uncomfortable hour in the restaurant. For an establishment nowhere near full to capacity, the staff seemed stressed and overwhelmed. They rushed about with nothing in their hands. There was no apparent reason for the delay in the arrival for our food, nor was one offered.
Finally, our waitress appeared, apologetic, and told us that the kitchen had overcooked my wife’s filet and was firing another. Well and good. As we learned later, the platter cost forty-three dollars. For that price, by all means, take a stab at getting it right.
My food arrived soon after. With the wrong side dish. I sent it back. It came back. I cut into my lamb chop. Remember I had ordered it rare. The list price on the chop is twenty-eight dollars. The chop was beyond well done. Totally inedible. I called the waitress over. She asked if I’d like them to fire another. I asked if it would take another forty minutes. She said she wasn’t sure. I told her not to bother and asked her to remove it from the bill.
Five minutes or so later, my wife’s food arrived. Her filet was significantly under-cooked. Her lobster tail was small, and abundantly overcooked. We ate it anyway. Why? Because after almost an hour and a half, we were hungry. And all I wanted to do at that point was get out.
Some time after we finished, we were able to flag down a waitress and retrieve our check. About the same time, the harried manager arrived and bluntly inquired if my lamb had been overcooked. I stated that it had been. He perfunctorily inquired if we wanted something else. I politely declined. He left. Without apology or explanation.
Our bill was in excess of seventy dollars. Without the lamb. With tip, we paid eighty-five. Between the arrival of the check and our departure, the chef/owner arrived in the dining room. Without so much as a glance for us, he planted himself at the table next door and bellowed gregariously for the remainder of our meal. He paid absolutely no attention to us. He spoke in a volume reserved for sea captains and drill sergeants and seemed deadly intent upon ruining whatever remnant of a good time we had experienced. At the very least, his complete disregard for our dining experience was commensurate with his attention to the cooking of our meal.
On the way out I passed the manager as he expedited by the kitchen. I mentioned that the evening had been “truly subpar.” He actually shrugged. He stated that he’d offered alternative food. The implication being, what else could he possibly do?
Fair enough.
The evening wasn’t a total loss. We stopped by Frost on the way home and had some gelato. We were treated with respect and courtesy and delivered a product well worth what we paid for it.
Tucson’s food landscape is changing. We have any number of dining options. A number of classic restaurants from our past hang on. Some in triumph, see Janos. Some simply deliver what they always have, see Pico de Gallo. And Pat’s Chili Dogs.
I had a friend in high school named Ray. And Ray used to say that a man’s honor was like his virginity. You only got to lose it once. But unlike your virginity, once you lost your honor, you lost everything.
One of my favorite places in Tucson was Ye Olde Lantern, a steakhouse on Stone. As the neighborhood decayed and the downtown nightlife faded, the Lantern held on. Eventually the owner died. And the restaurant went with him.
No matter what else happened, in good times or bad, the Lantern did what it did. As best it could. It wasn’t cheap. And it didn’t compromise. Not on service. Not on food. It didn’t matter if you were a regular. Or an out of towner. Your tiny meatballs arrived sizzling on a cast iron platter. The salad bar was outrageous. The steaks were perfectly prepared and the baked potatos creakingly loaded. When they finally went out, they went out with honor. And I’ll always remember that. And I’ll always respect it. And if it reopened tomorrow, I’d be first in line.
Jonathan’s Cork is headed in the same direction as Ye Olde Lantern. For very different reasons. And when it goes, it’ll go without honor. Apparently it lost that a long time ago. And with their honor went everything else.
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