Andy A.
Yelp
I usually don't bother posting reviews. When food or service is bad, I usually just don't go back. But I'll make an exception for this place.
The story starts before you even enter the establishment. We enjoyed standing in the airport concourse, gazing in at numerous vacant, yet unbussed tables. After what seemed like an eternity, we decided that we would bus a table ourselves. Upon entry, we noticed one available busses table in the back, so we took it.
Eventually, a waitress approaches. We order a beer, a Bloody Mary and some fries. Time passes. Small plants grow taller. A beer is placed on a counter near our table. Students matriculate. Highway construction progresses. The beer just sits there, getting warmer. Three Bloody Marys in plastic cups join the beer. Ice melts. The universe continues to expand. We finally flag a waiter, any waiter, and ask if those might be our drinks. With some uncertainty, we are allowed to retrieve our beverages.
Bloody Mary. Watery, almost flavorless. I would ask for some Tabasco sauce, but it seems likely to be an exercise in futility. I think there may be some alcohol in it, although this is just speculation. I sip my underwhelming beverage to the undiscernible sounds of "music" emanating from the ceiling.
I arise from my seat to to hunt for napkins. After finding some, I grab more the I need and distribute the extras to neighboring diners who also suffer from the apparent widespread shortage of napkins. And flatware, if they have that here.
Drinks get lower. In her boredom, my wife counts no fewer that 12 unbussed tables at this point. The staff are milling about, mostly looking at their phones. No sign of our French fries. I would imagine them peeling the potatoes in the back, but because the kitchen door is wide open, a can seen that this is not the case.
As I'm taking the last sip of my tomato juice, I see a paper tray of something resembling French fries being delivered to a neighboring table. The neighbor informs the waitress that they did not order any fries. We alert the staff that there is a reasonable chance that those are the fries that we ordered last week. They are them plopped unceremoniously on our table. Cold. My wife informs they waitress that the fries are not hot. The waitress assures us that they are indeed hot. My wife disagrees. The waitress reluctantly takes them away. She returns later with a similar offering that can accurately be described as slightly warmer. And floppy. I've had better fries from the frozen food isle of my local gas station.
I overhear people at an adjacent table order some fries. My wife and I glance at one another knowingly, both wondering if we should warn them. Oh the humanity.
Through the cacophony of the "music'" my wife asks if there are fire alarms going off in the airport. I told that I could not tell. It occurred to me, however, that if the airport really was on fire, maybe we could heat up our fries properly. We got the check, and politely departed.