At 7:45 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, I was getting into the rental car at my hotel in Orlando, all dressed up pretty and psyched for the succulent-sounding Mediterranean fusion dinner and champagne waiting for me at an elegant downtown restaurant called Fusion 7.
At 11:00 p.m., I was texting all my friends to tell them I was at the worst restaurant in the history of cuisine, and begging for rescue.
To be perfectly honest, once it became clear that we were not going to have a great (or even a good) New Year’s Eve dinner, I allowed myself to be entertained by the glorious disaster of the evening. The ballet of ineptitude, it unfolded thus:
The hostess had previously told us that our suburban hotel was about ten minutes away from the restaurant, but we couldn’t help noticing that her original directions took us in exactly the opposite direction of downtown. So we called at 7:50 to make sure we were going the right way. She told us that when she’d said “left,” she’d actually meant “right,” so we should turn around. Twenty minutes later, we called again. The same hostess tells us that when she said “turn around,” she actually meant “keep going straight.”
And that’s how we showed up for our reservation an hour late, to a “downtown” restaurant located in strip mall in the outer suburbs. They recognized us the party they have just sent on an hour-long detour, but no apology was forthcoming.
Other infuriating things:
I asked for details about an unfamiliar wine on the list. The waiter shrugged. “…Is there a sommelier?” I asked, meaning, Is there someone smarter than you? Apparently there was not.
I asked about the preparation of the fish on the menu. I got another shrug. He called over another waiter. Shrug. Repeat. Eventually there were four waiters clustered around my table, shrugging. No one went to ask the chef. Finally, one waitress said, “Oh! I know! It’s a sauce!”
Does this have nuts? I’m allergic to nuts. Shrug. Could you ask please? Waiter trundled off, never to return.
Fish bones in the tasteless ceviche. Crab shell in the tasteless crabcake. Bandaids on the face of the tasteless waiter.
I’d like that medium rare, please. Would well done be okay?
Here’s your sorbet, to, uh….(as he waved his hands frantically in the air, probably trying to remember big words like “cleanse” and “palate”)……you know!
To my friend as he was eating his risotto (pronounced at this fine establishment as riz-otto): Are you done with that?
And finally, they brought the check. Up until this point I have alternated between flinty stares at the waiters who most annoyed me and hysterical laughter, and if the check had come without incident this article might be a little more gentle. How-the-hell-ever. I already mentioned that the hostess’ bad directions sent us an hour out of our way, so we arrived Fusion 7 at about 9 p.m. for our 8 p.m. reservation. Did we get an apology? A round of drinks to make for their ineptitude? No.
Instead, they charged us $10 each for being late.
This article has been brought to you by Karen, the Bitter, Ranting, Italicizing Food Critic, more for your amusement than edification.