I just want to start off by saying that I was recommended by a friend and told it was a nice place to eat. I went there around lunch time and to start off, the menu was a bit confusing. I assumed I was ordering a chicken salad which turned out to be a Cesar salad, chicken was just the “topping.” This frustrated me because basically I was paying for two separate meals; a salad and chicken. Who just eats a plain Jane salad? Do I look vegan to you? You just can’t do that on a menu without asking for someone to become confused when they can’t order the chicken salad. Then the food arrived. Which was rather quick, but I’m not very impressed because it was a COLD salad with COLD “chicken” after all. Now, I’m not one to complain about aesthetics, BUT FOR GOD’S SAKES THE CHICKEN WAS GREEN. HOW ON EARTH IS THAT APPETIZING? I’m sorry but that was a line in the sand I couldn’t cross. Never mind the food, let’s talk about the atmosphere. First off, when you walk in you sort of get this 1970s hippy vibe, which isn’t bad, but it kind makes you feel like you just walked into your apartment after your 4/20 friendly roomie just took the largest bong rip of his life. The multiple headshots of Paul McCartney plastered around the establishment certainly don’t help with this visual. The dining area felt cheap and utterly claustrophobic. I mean, there was an adequate distance between each table, however I couldn’t help but overhear the person sitting next to me talk about how gender norms were corrupting our society and how the patriarchy needed to be stopped. Not to mention, while attempting to eating the green alien meat ahem, “CHICKEN” I couldn’t help but notice a young woman sitting across from me constantly staring at me while I ate my meal. Now, I certainly would have brought it to the attention of the restaurant manager, but I assumed she was just helplessly captivated by my dashing good looks, as many women are. Let’s talk about the prices now, shall we? First off, I almost fainted when the bill came. SEVENTEEN DOLLARS. SEVENTEEN DOLLARS FOR A SALAD. You’ve got to be pulling my leg. Don’t even get me started on the price of the “chicken.” I felt cheated. I felt robbed. I certainly hope they didn’t expect me to leave a tip because they’d already swindled me out of every nickel and penny in my billfold. I’m just lucky to not have caught some terrible communicable disease from that green “chicken.” Suffice it to say I’ll be ordering my chicken salads elsewhere from now on.
