I don’t want to give the name of the restaurant because the worst dinner I’ve ever eaten could have been a fluke. It deserves another try; but not for me.
The last dinner in Willow Glen would be my final treat to myself, so I stepped into a well attended restaurant and peeked at the menu. It was expensive, but one thing I learned from my husband, Will, was that if you pay a lot and the food is good, the price is okay.
Last night I ordered an eggplant dish with noodles and sauce with cheese. I knew it wasn’t going to be good when I only waited about ten minutes at the most when it was presented to me. The eggplant was mushy, sitting on top of some kind of noodles that were about one half inch long and soaked up in a nameless sauce. A layer of cheese sat on top of the whole thing that had obviously had a minute or two in a microwave.
I tried to eat it, but the eggplant tasted like it had been cooked over briskets and smoked. That was the only flavor to detect. The rest was bland.
The chef came out to the people in the restaurant, it seems to get his congratulations. He was wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and looked like a clown. He came to me and asked, “And, how was your eggplant, my lady?”
“Not so good.”
“Oh, really? What was wrong?”
“It didn’t have any taste.”
“Did you tell your waiter? She could have gotten you something else.”
“No, that’s okay, I’m ready to leave.”
“Ok, well come back again. Have a good evening.”
I don’t think he cared.
…and now I have a stomach ache.