To The Laughably Bad Restaurant Manager In New York:
I don’t know if you’ve ever eaten at a restaurant before, but if you have, you were clearly so disenchanted by the experience you had there you sought to ruin restaurants for everyone forever. You started a hate-cycle of food that has now implanted itself into my heart like Venom from Spiderman, and I hate you for it.
It took you 15 minutes to seat us. I’m not convinced that a hostess sat us, but perhaps just a sympathetic fellow patron.
It took 20 minutes to just come get our order for one round of drinks, which included water for everyone, one beer, and two pitches of Sangria.
It took 20 more minutes for those drinks to come to the table. They were delivered hatefully. Those were the only drinks we would be having all night because you are a ninja of ignorance.
It took 20 more minutes to come take our food order, which was 4 pizzas, 4 paninis, and 1 pasta dish. Not extraordinary, but your disdain was palpable. I sincerely apologize for ordering the food offered at your establishment.
It took 1 hour and 30 minutes after you took the order to get the food.
That’s a total of 2 hours and 45 minutes in your restaurant. You can go fuck yourself.
In the time it took us to finish up at the restaurant, the following things happened:
- I got drunk, and then sobered up totally.
- One member of our party went from Chelsea to Brooklyn to pick out a wedding dress, picked one out, paid for it, and then returned to Chelsea before the food came.
- Another member of our party drove from Philadelphia to Brooklyn and then took a train to Chelsea to meet us before the food came
- We realized everyone who worked there hated the thought of people being convenienced.
When we asked what the problem was, you proceeded to make it our fault that your restaurant is more incompetent that I could have ever imagined. You specifically told us, with a bitch-tone:
- You’re a large party, and we had a hard time accommodating you.
- 12 people is a large party, but considering we were THE ONLY ONES THERE, it doesn’t seem a hard to accomplish feat. Go fuck yourself.
- The Paninis take a long time to make.
- No, they don’t, because they’re motherfucking grilled sandwiches. Unless you custom-forged each panini press for each individual sandwich (which would explain why they were all burnt), you can go fuck yourself.
- We are not a deli, you are in a restaurant.
- Oh, now you can suck a universe full of dicks, and then go fuck yourself with them. Tourists we may be, but I am not a barefoot yokel from the Deliverance Appalachians. I am aware of the function of restaurants, and in fact, most of us have worked in or currently work in restaurants. Go fuck yourself.
I hope that your restaurant fails. I hope that you have to leave that building in the dark of night because of your financial problems that your lack of attention brought about. I hope that your servers get caught fucking in the sink and it gets posted to Vine and everyone learns about it. I hope you burn your hands every day on the panini press.
You’re a horrible person.– Favorite Comment From The Last Post: From Chooplah: If only I could land me some swag……