Andrew H.
Yelp
For my birthday, my parents selected Convivo at the Santa Barbara Inn--a choice made with real consideration. As a triplet, our celebrations are shared, and with both of my sisters adhering to a vegan diet and my own sensitivity to dairy, finding a venue that can graciously accommodate everyone is no small feat. Convivo appeared, at least on the surface, to offer that rare intersection of elegance, inclusivity, and care.
I come from a family where food is more than sustenance. On my mother's Greek side, cooking is an act of intention--a form of love, history, and ritual. Over time, my appreciation for food deepened into an appreciation for hospitality itself. Having lived in Long Beach, San Diego, and now Las Vegas, I've experienced firsthand how even in bustling, high-volume environments, meaningful service can flourish when attentiveness is baked into a restaurant's culture.
At Convivo, that attentiveness was conspicuously absent.
I ordered the Costolette--a half rack of smoked and slow-roasted pork ribs. What arrived was startling: four small ribs, the exterior so aggressively charred that it veered past rustic and into acrid. Though the interior meat remained moist, the overwhelming bitterness of the char made the dish unpleasant to consume--less a balance of smoke and flavor, and more the sensation of ingesting something carcinogenic.
Curiously, the true standout on the plate was the giardiniera--a small but remarkable array of vegetables, beautifully vinegared and thoughtfully composed. It was the kind of sharp, bright counterpoint that a heavier dish desperately needs. I've grown accustomed to seeing "pickled vegetables" listed on menus, only to be served a few limp pickles passed off as a garnish. This, thankfully, was not that. These were actual vegetables--properly prepared, boldly flavored, and deserving of more attention than they received on the plate. I remarked to my family and a passing staff member that they were the best part of the meal. Moments later, the dish was cleared mid-sentence, without acknowledgment or pause.
When I later mentioned, with composure, that the ribs were over-charred and the portion rather meager, the comment was met with indifference. No inquiry, no apology--just a quiet, practiced detachment that made it clear nothing would follow. It was not an oversight; it was a posture.
The room itself offered little reprieve. Despite several vacant tables, the noise was dissonant. Conversations ricocheted through the space, and I could distinctly hear the hiss of the glass rinser at the bar each time it was used. For a restaurant of such intimate size, the acoustics were remarkably untempered. In larger dining rooms elsewhere, I've seen how design elements--wood, drapery, soft furnishings--can soften the sound and draw focus back to the table. Convivo, regrettably, did not extend that same consideration.
Dining--particularly on a night meant to carry significance--should offer more than the sum of its courses. It should offer care, awareness, and a sense of participation. My parents did everything to cultivate that feeling. I only wish the restaurant had joined them in that effort.
This is not shared in bitterness, but in hope. Convivo holds real potential: a coastal setting, an ambitious menu, and flashes of culinary thoughtfulness. But to become the experience it aspires to be, it must treat its service not as background noise, but as part of the craft.
