E. B.
Google
Let’s start with the good news: the truffle fries were excellent — crispy, fragrant, and probably the only thing that truly earned their spot on the menu. The open kitchen was another nice touch — spacious, tidy, and gave a sense of transparency you rarely see.
And now, for the ceviche bar that somehow forgot it’s a ceviche bar. There were only four ceviche options on the entire menu — barely enough to call it a theme, let alone a concept. The interior was painfully plain, offering the charm of an IKEA showroom on a Monday morning.
Cleanliness? Let’s say… aspirational. Crumbs on the sofa, soy sauce splatters on the wall — the kind of details you can’t unsee once you’ve spotted them.
The service was the highlight of awkwardness: cold, uninterested, and vaguely passive-aggressive. We felt like unwanted guests crashing a private dinner. They cleared our plates before we even finished eating, and when pouring our wine, the server dumped nearly half the bottle into the glasses in one go — as if silently suggesting, “Maybe drink up and go?”
As for the ceviche itself — utterly forgettable. Overloaded with avocado (and not even a nicely cut one), lacking balance, acidity, or any spark of flavor. Honestly, I’ve had more exciting salads from a gas station.
And that Michelin Guide mention? Still trying to figure out why. It certainly wasn’t for the food, the service, the atmosphere, or the experience.
Oh, and did I mention it’s all wildly overpriced? For what you get, the bill felt like a punchline to a bad joke.
Would I come back? Only if every other restaurant in the city was closed — and even then, I’d think twice.