Jorge M.
Yelp
Henderson's Water Street used to be a goldmine of hidden gems, just like J.Lo would say, if you know you know. (wink wink). One of my all-time favorites was the Rainbow. I loved mornings catching up with friends over steaming plates of everything: eggs, bacon, hash browns, and the undisputed king - their biscuits and gravy. Nothing has ever compared.
Years went by, owners changed, but the Rainbow stayed true to its heart - delicious food at unbeatable prices. This review isn't about the food though, which is thankfully still amazing. It's about how a loyal customer gets treated.
I was practically raised at the Rainbow, starting at just six years old. Now, in my forties, it was still my go-to spot. But recently, on my way to grab a bite, everything changed.
The metal railing by the entrance snapped, much like how buildings age, only in this case, it left a nasty gash on me.
Dazed, I looked for help. People hurried past, focused on their own evening. Finally, I approached a security guard, he looked somewhat concerned. While explaining what happened, he called for a manager, all the while trying (unsuccessfully) to reattach the broken railing.
"Hold off on that," I said, "someone else could get hurt."
The manager arrived, her gaze fixated solely on the mangled metal. Before I could finish my story, she barked orders to have it wrapped up. My well-being seemed like an afterthought. All I could manage was a request for a bandaid. Thankfully, the security guard, unlike his manager, seemed genuinely apologetic.
After patching myself up in the restroom, the sting of the wound wasn't the only thing bothering me. Thankfully, no stitches were needed, but my wrist throbbed. Back in the dining area, a man, possibly her supervisor, materialized. His demeanor was frosty.
"Where were you?" he demanded.
"Washing the blood off and putting on a bandaid," I replied.
He cut me off mid-sentence. "Number?"
They hovered over me, more concerned with the bar than my injury. "Shouldn't there be an incident report?" I finally asked.
A curt "Nope" was all I got. They stood there, an unwelcome statue exhibit, waiting for my exit. Maybe it was the shock, but I blurted, "Actually, I was still planning to eat."
The supervisor's reply dripped with sarcasm, "Well then, go ahead and eat!"
"Is that all?" I pressed, a sliver of hope clinging to the memory of the friendly Rainbow I once knew. He just stared.
Dejected, I sat down. The familiar food tasted different now. This wasn't the same friendly Rainbow. The manager and supervisor kept flitting by, never once checking on me. Maybe they were keeping an eye on me, or maybe just barking orders at their staff.
When I finished, I left. Not just because of the injury, but because the Rainbow's heart had seemingly hardened alongside its prices. On the outside, it looked the same, but within, something crucial had gone missing.
This story isn't about bad food, but about a lost connection, a place that prioritized profit over people. The Rainbow may still be there, but for me, the magic is gone.
