SociallyInept.com
SociallyInept.com
|
|
|
Sunday, July 16, 2006
It is an unpleasant feeling when one finds oneself unable to let go of bitterness. It is for this reason that I recommend that anybody who wishes to avoid that feeling likewise avoid ever setting foot in Mr. Chow----the trendy, celebrity-friendly Beverly Hills restaurant (Mr. Chow has a handful of locations worldwide, but I have only personally experienced the misery of this one). If you have ever read the wonderful fable "The Emperor's New Clothes", please understand that if the good Emperor were around today, Mr. Chow would be his favorite fucking restaurant Lofty Expectations My wife and I are not native to the L.A. region, so we decided that on our most recent visit we would dine at a restaurant with a world-class name for great food and service. Mr. Chow's reputation for attracting Hollywood's most well-known faces was the final tie-breaker in its favor. The First Disappointment Upon our arrival, my wife and I had to elbow our way in as there were dozens of people just standing around drinking. A well-dressed and waiterly-looking chap asked us if we had reservations. "Yes, for right now," I responded. The man told us there would be a slight delay and invited us to get a drink from the bar while we waited. My wife and I jostled our way to the bar and ordered our consolation drinks. I turned to my wife. "These had better be fucking free," I muttered. I would later discover that they most assuredly fucking weren't. For the next half hour we stood packed amidst a throng of murmuring assholes, wondering if this was the standard procedure at Mr. Chow. Unexpectedly, we were approached by a young lady. Starry-eyed and perhaps noticing my more-than-passing resemblance to Orel Hershiser, the woman asked if she knew me from somewhere. "You know those Cadbury Creme Eggs?" I asked. "Yeah." "Well I'm the guy that shoves them up your ass." Shit, Shit, All of it Shit As the waiter led us to our seats, we were shocked at the horrible layout of the restaurant. The customers were packed in like sardines, with literally no space between tables. Our table was located snugly between an annoying name-dropping lout to the right, and the bartender's ass to the left. The waiter had to pull the table completely out into the aisle to allow my wife to get to her seat. When she had to take a shit halfway through our meal, we had to once again summon the waiter so he could pull the table out to release her. Once we were seated, our waiter asked what we would like to drink. My wife asked for water and was given the option of two overpriced types of bottled water. She opted for the slimy-tasting Evian. I asked for a diet cola, so the waiter produced a 20-ounce plastic bottle of Diet Coke and poured half of it into a glass of ice. Later, I would ask for a refill and watch as the waiter poured the rest of the soda out of the same bottle into my glass. The presentation was tacky, but was of no great concern to me. Things got worse when our waiter returned to ask if we were ready to order our meal. The Emperor's New Menu When our waiter asked us for our order, it struck me as a bit odd since he had never given us menus. When I asked him for a menu, he quite dickishly acted surprised and disappointed in me. He explained that most customers at Mr. Chow are regulars and already know what they want to eat. As it began to dawn on me that my waiter was an absolute fucking prick, he went on to explain how new customers will typically allow him to put a meal together for them. Now I'm not usually susceptible to such transparently manipulative ploys; but this waiter's con job was so completely out of left field that all I could do was mutter, "ok". Since then, not a day has gone by where I haven't replayed that moment in my mind and daydreamed about telling that cunt-ass Mr. Chow waiter to go fuck himself. As he walked away from the table, I knew I was about to get soaked. Horrible Food, Served Horribly By convincing gullible customers that they should let the waiter order for them, Mr. Chow manages to save time and money on food prep by essentially turning this "high-class" restaurant into an extremely overpriced fast food joint. Thus, having successfully convinced me and my wife to waive our right to choose our own appetizer and entrees, the dickhead waiter went about the grueling task of fetching mass-produced lukewarm food from the kitchen for our enjoyment. With nary a clue as to what any of the food was going to cost me, it was difficult to enjoy my meal. It also didn't help that much of the food smelled and tasted like a homeless woman's snatch. The only slightly passable dish was the lettuce wraps, which are generally difficult to screw up. Next, we were presented with a couple of softshell crabs that were soggy with oil and had settled at room-temperature by the time they arrived on our plates. As I bit into my crab, I was appalled by the amount of brown, pungent fecal matter that burst forth from it and spilled onto my lap. I have never prepared softshell crab myself, but I would think that a conscientious chef would make efforts to reduce the amount of human shit present in the crab before serving it. Our next dish was a truly hideous platter of beef jerky underneath a ladleful of gravy. This was described to us as "filet mignon" by our douchebag waiter. Like the softshell crab preceding it, our beef-shit was served to us lukewarm. Beyond that there may have been one or two additional dishes that managed to rise to the level of being merely forgettable. A Word About Diet Coke When our check finally came, it was impossible to tell exactly how overpriced each individual dish was as the food wasn't itemized. However, the beverages were itemized, and I was disgusted to discover that my half-bottle of Diet Coke and subsequent half-bottle refill were charged to me at $6 each. Thus, I was charged $12 plus tax and tip for a 20-ounce plastic bottle of Diet Coke. Now this was not the most infuriating thing about my trip to Mr. Cunt (Chow); but it may be the clearest single indicator of the ripoff nature of the Mr. Chow operation. If a restaurant wishes you to believe that the premium price you pay is due to superior food, they should charge you more for the food. When they shamelessly charge you at a 1000% markup for a bottle of Diet Coke, you know you're dealing with hucksters and fuckfaces. Final Scorecard SERVICE: 1/10 - Absolute shit. The waiter makes you feel like a dumbfuck assface if you ask to see a menu, then schemes to extort as much money from you as possible throughout your meal. What kind of douchebag restaurateur would train his waiters to act this way? Oh yeah - Mr. Fucking Chow. CELEBRITY SIGHTING: 1/10 - This category is present only because Mr. Chow has such a well-established reputation as a celebrity hangout. When my wife and I were there, no celebrities were present; and in the absence of celebrities there were merely many people there hoping to see celebrities. There was also an insufferable shitbird seated next to us who incessantly talked our ears off about himself in an apparent effort to impress his date. He claimed that the last time he was at Mr. Chow, they seated him right next to Steven Spielberg (who I'm sure was delighted). The validity of this claim notwithstanding, I lost all respect for the jackass when he revealed himself to be a repeat customer. FOOD: 1/10 - Jesus Fucking Christ! I would have given the food 3 out of 10 if I had purchased it at Panda Express, but this was supposed to be some primo shit. Instead, it was just shit. For as expensive as this meal was, I expected something that would at least taste better than fast food Chinese takeout. This shitty fucking meal wasn't Chinese, and it wasn't food. Those are two pretty serious knocks against it. ATMOSPHERE: 2/10 - Mr. Chow distinguishes itself with shitty, cramped quarters filled with the most annoying human beings on the planet. If I need to go take a shit, I don't want to have to summon a waiter to create a pathway for me to escape from my table. Had it been me in that predicament rather than my wife, I would have cut a hole in the seat and shat in it greasily. Fuck Mr. Chow. |
A
Message From the CEO: