Blake
Google
This spot’s plopped in a quirky corner of San Antonio I’d never stumbled into before—like a secret level in a video game I didn’t know I’d unlocked. It’s got serious SoCal vibes, like someone airlifted a chunk of San Diego and dropped it in Texas. The neighborhood screams hipster so loud, I half-expected to see a guy in a man-bun riding a unicycle while sipping kombucha. The staff and crowd? Same vibe. I’m pretty sure I was the only one there not wearing ironic thrift-store suspenders.
For an appetizer, I went with the mussels, expecting a fancy plate swimming in garlicky butter goodness. Instead, they rolled up with… a can. Yep, a tin of mussels—surrounded by some crackers and lemons like it’s a sad picnic at a gas station. I’m no detective, but I’d bet my left sock they snagged it from Walmart for $3, peeled off the label, and slapped a $15 price tag on it. Genius hustle! I mean, props for the upmarket swagger, but I was hoping for something that didn’t scream “doomsday prepper’s lunch.” Maybe I should’ve whispered “no cans, please” to the waiter while winking dramatically.
Now, the pizza? Oh, baby, that pizza was a whole different story. It strutted out like a New York slice with attitude—thin crust, delightfully floppy, the kind that slaps you in the face if you’re not careful. I’m giving that bad boy a standing ovation and 5 stars. It’s the hero this story deserves.
But then there’s the service. Sweet mercy, it was like dining in a European stereotype—waiters ghosting harder than my last Tinder match. I practically had to send up a flare or sacrifice a goat to get the check. They swooped by every 15-20 minutes, probably to make sure we hadn’t started a new civilization at the table. So, final tally? 3 stars. Killer pizza, Walmart’s finest canned mussels, and service slower than a sloth on a smoke break. Bon appétit, I guess!