Except for the Wurst sausages-not the accompaniment of the un-smooth potatoes and store-bought sauerkraut-, and the Long Island ice tea that with its intoxicating effect that helped me get through this dinner (Thank you Mr. Butt.), the experience could have been described as having an appendectomy with no anesthesia, and no appendicitis; all thanks to our star, our waitress, the person we rely on most to make our dinning experience a pleasant one. But not this time. Before we move on to her, let me tell you also that the salad came in in a salad plate to small for an olive, with a cold balsamic vinaigrette the consistency of baby food; and the dessert was a disappointment, a praise considering our expectations and the Chocolate Bag itself: a too-hard-to-cut-through chocolate shelf (believe me when I say that I took my spoon and I went Rambo on that thing) with over whipped cream and soggy fruits, kept in the fridge for way too long. But back to her. She did not come back to our table for drinks for long enough as for us to think that she forgot about us, which; thinking back, may have been a good thing. Perhaps we may have forgotten about her. We ended up having to ask for a second round of drinks to the hostess, which I needed, deserved. The waitress finally came back to ask how everything was and before we were finished our statement, she left. What the f@$#k? And threw the check on the table at the end; and left. The dinner may have been tolerable if not for the service. Maybe we could have felt warm inside with a friendly person at the table, maybe hopeful that the next time food will raise up, but we did not. I left no tip, but I hope she got it.
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