| By Sadie DeArruda | June 13, 2022 |
I would like to preface my piece by stating that I created a persona for this piece in no way am I expressing my own opinions on topics discussed throughout the piece. My writer’s craft teacher asked for an expository piece and I chose to deliver that in the form of a food review written by an egotistical uncle who will most definitely never be asked to look after his niece again. The voice I created was used for satirical purposes, not as a way of expressing deeply repressed emotions or opinions. And any similarities between my persona and real people are coincidental, except for all the similarities between my persona and the people I based him off of.
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I did not and will not coddle a cook simply because they claim to “never have done this before,”. Seven year olds need to know where their talents lay, and when to throw in the towel.
Reviewed March 25 2022
Last night I experienced one of my greatest feats as a reviewer; I dined at a small new place, having a private meal prepared by an up-and-coming young chef, my seven year old niece. And while some say that with age comes knowledge, those are the people that fear confrontation and therefore accept mediocrity. I did not and will not coddle a cook simply because they claim to “never have done this before,” seven year olds need to know where their talents lay, and when to throw in the towel.
As many of you know, I spend so much time traveling for work that I don’t have much time to spend with my beloved family. So when my brother openly wept on the phone, begging me to look after the child so that he and his wife could have some sort of “night out on the town”, I had no choice but to give in to his desperate pleas and watch my niece.
So there I was, standing outside the door, double checking the address I was given and making a mental note to give my brother cash for his birthday this year. My first impression of the place was similar to my opinion of the Macdonald’s playground: overly full of children and sticky everywhere. As I was seated I moved a nude Barbie doll from my seat, and no, she wasn’t the only one not in a hair net. The chef came out to greet me, placing a crayon scribble menu in front of me. After I insisted that the chicken scratch she referred to as handwriting was impossible to decipher, the chef listed off the specials. I do hope that those front teeth come in soon because listening to her suggest salsa and a side of chips, was torturous to say the least. Never before had I thought to bring an umbrella to a meal, but after tonight I’ll think twice before heading out the door.
The ambiance of the dining room was set largely by the music flowing out of the Hello Kitty speaker. And while the music provided relief from the mindless jabber the chef insisted on making despite my lack of response, the selection was limited to the soundtracks of Disney movies. The transition from the sounds of Phil Collins singing about a gorilla man, to yet another princess singing about love to a sarcastic animal sidekick voiced by a grown man clearly in search of his dignity, created a major mood shift in the dining room’s atmosphere. Thankfully the chef returned from the kitchen with my appetizer, shortly after shouting nonsense at a bag of tortillas that had apparently “been placed too high,” until I had no choice but to enter the kitchen and grab the bag for her. Clearly this place was understaffed, but I couldn’t believe how unprofessional they were that after everything with the chips to have the audacity to ask me to loosen the lid from the salsa jar as well. Is that not some sort of corporate policy to reprimand an untrained server?
As I reached into the plastic bag of tortilla chips, I was dumbfounded into silence when I found the cook seated across from me, looking at me expectantly for a compliment on the simple slop. Never the fan of revealing what stance my review of a place will take, I smiled politely as I dipped a chip into the No Name salsa and raised it above my head, as a form of both cheers and prayer. And while I was unimpressed by the unoriginality of chips and salsa, I was pleasantly surprised by the combination of sweet and spicy flavours. There was a diverse texture with softened pieces of mango, mixed with the finely chopped cilantro, brought together by what at first taste appears to be the perfect amount of jalapeno, yet after a moment, and a few giggles from your niece, you realize this is in fact the Robert Pattison as batman of hot sauces, and your tongue may in fact fall off. And you consider how to calmly respond to the child in front of you. After the momentary success of the appetizer, I had considered running at that moment. But I could never get a reasonable driver to come out to the suburbs. The waitress came by to deliver a new napkin, this time the ponies were replaced by unicorns proving we were moving on. I was appalled by the cleanliness of the pink plastic cup from which I was forced to drink. I suggest the restaurant owner invest in new cups that the chef hadn’t used as a personal chew toy. I will say that while the selection was basic, and in need of more fermentation for me to get through the evening, I was slightly relieved to spot an unopened bottle of wine, tucked in the very back of the liquor cabinet. There was a note still attached from my late grandmother, telling the happy couple to save the bottle for a special day, so I made sure to leave a full glass’ worth for them to share with two straws.
As I enjoyed the fruits of someone else’s labour, the waitress came back out. I found myself doing a double-take as the entree was served because I was suddenly face to face with a meal that the man who lives outside of my building and begs for food scraps, would take one look at and decide to go hungry. Topped with what was clearly hand-torn cheese, hopefully torn before I caught her mining for gold in her nose, while the rest of the pasta swims in the gallon of queso drowning all the circus animal shaped pasta. It’s my best guess that after seeing just how much queso sauce was in the dish, she added the one large spoonful of soy cream cheese in a hail mary of sorts, yet the white blob refused to mix with the rest of the meal, as all three cheeses fought for dominance, creating more tension than a pregnant teenager in church. As for presentation, the mostly uncooked dish was served in a pink thermos with a familiar ribbon-wearing cat on it, and a cracked magenta base.
Looking down at the “food” in front of me I kept bringing my face closer and closer to the dish, trying to recognize the scent. But being the professional I am, I collected the plastic fork at my side and dug into the thermos. As my fork collected the food that made me wish my brother had listened to me all those years ago, my fork was challenged by another. I’ve heard of lots of chefs with ego’s far larger than life, but never before have I experienced a chef who thought their food was so undeniable that they’ve decided to share my meal with me. Never before have I witnessed such blatant career suicide in action. With a coy smile, the chef took a forkful of her own dish and squealed with an untamed delight, claiming the elephant was the luckiest. To which I responded with some basic science she needed to know, and while she quietly whimpered beside me, I took a final look down at the mac and cheese in front of me, then in a moment of blind courage, I took a bite of the bland dish. I must say that the use of uncooked pasta was revolutionary in terms of providing a new texture of both being impaled and choked at the same time. And while the fork was incapable of holding more than one noodle due to its small size, I was able to use it as a strainer in the battle against the formidable queso.
With the entree over, I felt a brief moment of relief, sure that I was out of the woods. There was a brief snafu as my dish was being cleared when the chef informed me she had passed gas. I was forced to consider my ten steps, and in the end decided it best to wait until after dessert to give my review of the night. Between dinner and dessert, I sat swirling my grape juice, afraid of what was to come after just one bite of the god-forsaken mac and cheese. I can assure you, readers, that the mere sight of this mac and cheese is enough to leave one’s only hope for escape to be a relaxing bath with a toaster. And for that reason I insisted the chef finish the meal.
After my brother texted me to inform me his wife and him would be home soon to relieve me, I reminded the chef that my time is highly sought after and she needed to get dessert on the table. And though she claimed to have not prepared dessert, I reminded her that a good cook can make anything from what little they have. I could have sworn I heard her muttering a response as she walked back to the kitchen, but it’s hard to say with the sudden sounds of a fish woman singing about the black market deals she made to get human legs.
After the whole soundtrack from a film about the Greek god who gave up Mount Olympus for some lying floozy he met, dessert was served. Clearly service with a smile wasn’t mandatory at this restaurant, seeing as the waitress was yawning as she dropped off dessert. Yawning, as if she was the one forced to be here. Deciding her poor service would reflect in her lack of a tip, I moved on. I wasn’t surprised by dessert, mostly because only moments ago the chef had come out asking me to peel back the wrapper on the pudding cup because apparently “she wasn’t strong enough.” However I was pleasantly surprised to see the chef had replated the dish into a smaller pink plastic bowl. She had also improved her presentation, with a dollop of fresh whipped cream topping the tapioca pudding. Or so I thought. It was only as I willingly broke my diet, indulging in the pudding and cream, that I quickly realized I had broken my diet for pudding, and another scoop of the soy cream cheese. I quickly excused myself to collect my thoughts.
I returned to my table shortly after, to find my plate had been cleared. While no one had thought to check with me first, I couldn’t help but feel a great sense of relief at the notion of never seeing that monstrosity again. Until the chef walked back into the dinning room, face covered in her own creation. I considered running for the hills, but I was wearing my babies, and I couldn’t do that to them. I was trapped. At this point, it was clear the chef needed to step down and pursue a new career.
I must admit to everyone reading this, I fully intended to walk away from tonight with food poisoning, and am slightly impressed to admit I’ll only be walking away with a mild stomach ache. I will also be going home with my tip. There are not enough words in the English language to describe how awful the service was at this restaurant, but allow me to try. Not only was the chef unprepared, but I’m certain I watched the waitress wipe some spilled queso off the floor and lick her hand clean. As I exited the dining room, my feet were assaulted, stepping carefullying through a minefield of Legos. But I was forced to forget about that as I wiped slime off the refrigerator handle. I did find it an odd choice to have a training toilet in the kitchen, having me considering whether or not I had seen the chef break to go to the washroom at any point this night. However everything from the night was prepared with love.
In terms of the food, you should not enter in hopes of weight loss, because you’re only going to lose about a pound from sweating and all other side effects of the dishes served. As for the cleanliness, those of you with kids will have built up immunity to safely eat here, but for all you fun uncles and college friends, I can’t in good conscience encourage you to dine here. As for the parents of the chef, you should be proud of her confidence in the face of incompetence.
In terms of my relationship with the chef going forward, I think it’s safe to say we’ll never have a working relationship. And I’ve already scheduled a reminder to go get my phone number changed, but I'll be sure to send a hair net this Christmas instead of cash.
Benedict Whispers is a renowned food blogger, who travels the world in search of the finest cuisine. He lives in New York City, with his purebred show dog Monty.