Betting on Bailey

So I’m not entirely unprepared when I’m sent an absolutely brutal Yelp review of Seb II Thursday morning.

This place sucks big hairy eyeballs.

Sebastian Ardalan might have two fucking Michelin stars, but if the food we ate last night was any indication, the people that hand out these stars have no taste buds.

First, my girlfriend ordered steak, well done. The snotty waiter looked down his nose at us for that. Apparently, when you are paying over a hundred dollars for meat, the only option is rare. Eating raw meat is not an option for her — she’s pregnant. And hey, douchebag waiter, if you are reading this? I’d prefer to tell our family that we are having a baby first, before letting you know.

Then the meat comes out, and of course it’s still bloody. We send it back to be cooked. Comes back thirty minutes (!) later, cold and bloody. I point out how long we’ve been waiting for our food, and the waiter shrugs.

Absolutely terrible experience. We ended up eating at Taco Bell, where some cheerful minimum wage workers made us a delicious steak burrito, and yes, they made sure the steak was well-done without the attitude.

And those two Michelin stars? The chef can stuff it up his ass.

Damn it. If this were a one-time thing, I could ignore it. Sometimes, customers get disgruntled, but this is starting to feel like a pattern. I’ve seen many reviews in the last three months talk about slow service, snotty waiters and more. I need to head down to Seb II right away, and I’m long overdue a conversation with the staff there. I don’t like to go Gordon Ramsey on their asses, but after this review, it seems necessary.

* * *

“What the absolute fuck?” I wave my phone, with the offending Yelp review visible on the screen, in the small office space in Seb II. Crammed in there are the sous-chef Ben and the restaurant manager Mina, who is in charge of the front.

Mina looks uncomfortable, but she doesn’t say anything. Ben starts to roll his eyes, then catches a sight of my face and thinks better of it. “Look, Sebastian,” he says. “I wouldn’t get too bent out of shape. They were just tourists.”

“They were just tourists.” My voice is dangerous and my blood pressure is rising. “That’s your response to this? They were just tourists? Do you know how much money tourists bring to Seb II? Do you think our business is all investment bankers and Wall Street analysts? Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?”

Ben quails, but I’m not done yelling. “Is this review fair?”

Mina finally speaks up. “Yes Chef,” she mumbles. “It’s true. They did send back their steak, and they did wait more than thirty minutes for a refire.” She shoots Ben an irritated look. “I was told the kitchen didn’t feel that tending to the steak was a priority.”

“Bitch, don’t you put this on me,” Ben snarls. “There was a large party of regulars in the room and we were dealing with their orders.”

I’ve been too lax with these guys. Ben’s casually uttered slur against Mina is a sign that the front and the back of the restaurant have become dangerously fractured. I’m not going to tolerate this kind of disrespect. There’s only one person in this room that’s allowed to curse, and that’s me.

“Ben.” My voice is quiet. “If that’s how you want to speak to my staff, you can leave.”

He realizes how close he is to the line. Fuck, I’m not sure he hasn’t crossed the line. He gulps audibly before he speaks. “Sorry, Mina,” he mutters. “Sorry, Chef.”

Mina nods curtly. She doesn’t seem surprised by either the swearing or the half-assed apology. “Mina, I’d like to speak to you alone,” I tell her. “Ben, can you excuse us? I’ll send for you.”

Ben looks unhappy, but leaves without protest. He’s smart enough to know that when you are knee-deep in shit, you need to stop digging. “Okay,” I tell Mina, when we are alone. “Tell me your side.”

“What makes you think I have something to say?”

“Because you are from Nebraska, and are the last person in the city to treat tourists badly. So, what gives?”

She looks at her nails. “Permission to speak frankly, Chef?” she asks finally.