S Crzytude
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I’ve known about MacArthur’s for years—it's a staple in the neighborhood. I’ve only eaten there maybe twice about 5–7 years ago, and unfortunately, I remember exactly why I stopped. Back then, the food was disappointing. Now, I decided to give it another shot, hoping the “under new management” sign meant something good. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.
Let’s start with the food. Whoever’s in that kitchen might be physically present, but the soul of cooking didn’t show up. The mashed potatoes? I don’t know if they were fried, microwaved, or baptized in old grease, but they were offensive to the concept of comfort food. The beef short ribs were shockingly unseasoned—like they skipped the salt, pepper, and basic effort. The Salisbury steak? Tough enough to fix a tire with. The mac and cheese had all the charm of something made in a hurry—with a powder packet. No southern love, no richness, just box vibes.
And dessert? I’m still emotionally recovering from the peach cobbler, which had the consistency of soup. I’m not saying I needed a spoon, but a ladle would've been helpful. The banana pudding was just as runny—if it had any more liquid, I could’ve poured it into a glass and called it a milkshake.
Even the muffins didn’t make it out unscathed—dry, crumbly, and falling apart like my hope with every bite.
I went there yesterday to grab a meal for my mom and, half-joking but mostly serious, told her, “I hope you don’t get sick from this.” That’s not something you should ever say after buying someone dinner, especially my Mother
What’s sad is, I don’t think this is a lost cause. I truly believe MacArthur’s could turn things around if they got a cook who actually cares—about the taste, the presentation, and maybe, just maybe, about feeding people food that doesn’t taste like regret. It would also help if they invited some honest customer feedback instead of pretending everything is just fine.
Until then… I guess I’ll keep my distance—again.