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A restaurant that mistakes proximity for service.
The evening began with an unnecessary indignity: handing over payment details just to secure a reservation. One wonders if the restaurant fears its food so little that it demands money before a guest has even walked through the door.
When the dishes arrived, the imbalance became clear. The Gallega loin was excellent — rich, tender, and cooked to perfection. Unfortunately, it only served to highlight the mediocrity surrounding it. The Retinto was forgettable, the sort of cut you could buy from a Vejer’s area butcher at a quarter of the cost and grill yourself with more satisfaction. Beyond that, the cooking was acceptable but hardly deserving of the stratospheric pricing. Overpriced is too gentle a word; opportunistic might be closer.
But if the food raised eyebrows, the service raised alarms. A revolving door of waiters came and went with no coherence, as if nobody wanted to take responsibility for the table. Then came the pièce de résistance: a server who hovered like an anxious shadow, staring intently, clicking his pen like a nervous tic, and most astonishingly, insisting on physical contact, placing his hand on my shoulder until I was forced to tell him to stop. Hospitality this is not; it is harassment dressed in an apron.
What we are left with is a restaurant that postures as refined while behaving like an amateur. One dish shone, yes, but brilliance surrounded by chaos is not brilliance at all. Dining here is an exercise in tolerance, for inflated prices, uneven cooking, and service that borders on the absurd.