Kays I.
Google
The clock strikes 8 PM.
The air in Las Palmas is thick with promise.
Course 1: Garlic soup with confederated grapes and shrimp.
It arrives without a word of introduction, like an uninvited guest at a party. The presentation? Non-existent. It’s a bowl of something. The taste? A watery, bland mess. Imagine a school cafeteria soup, but with ambitions it can’t possibly live up to. Food served without a soul.
Intermission: The Bread Saga, Act I.
The bread arrives. Or rather, it's thrown onto the battlefield. We’re not sure what its purpose is. It's an awkwardly cut crust piece, a social outcast of the bread world. Are you not supposed to trim the crusts? Or maybe serve it in a vessel that doesn't scream "we gave up"?
To accompany this brick, a disproportionately large plate holding a single, lonely tear of fig and whey butter. The bread itself is clearly yesterday's, or perhaps from last week's archaeological dig. The tiny smear of butter is uninspired, a sad, distant cousin of a bad Dulce de leche.
Course 2: Conferred carrots with carrot sauce.
Okay, here we go. A beautiful plate, well-presented. A flicker of hope! The taste is intriguing, the vinegar tang is sharp and interesting... but then it just stays there. It mugs the aftertaste and refuses to leave. It’s all sharp edges, no roundness, no comforting finish. Something is missing.
Taste: 4/5 (for the effort).
A new slice of bread is served. My old, hard piece is left on my plate like a monument to past failures. The rest of the table gets a fresh slice from the same gigantic, uninspired loaf. I ask my companions. The verdict is in: it’s just as dry and hard. A certified brick.
The purpose of the new bread remains a mystery…
The wait begins. 23 minutes have now passed since the carrots departed. The lonely bread slices sit there, waiting for a friend, a purpose, anything…
The meat has arrived. The plate is cold. Let’s see if the food is warm. The presentation… laughable. A sloppy mess where the potato purée is bleeding into the brown sauce. The meat, tragically, is cold and tough. The purée is fine—but it’s hard to fail a potato purée. The leek is unevenly cut, overcooked, boring, tasteless.
But the real crime is the fat. If you’re brave enough to serve big pieces of fat on the meat, you know it has to be rendered and warm, melting in your mouth. This felt like having a rough, chilled, hard piece of butter stuck to the roof of my mouth. Disgusting.
It's a sad state of affairs when the overcooked leek is better than the main protein.
Rating: A hard 2/5.
And now, after the meat course is finished, they clear away the lonely bread. Its purpose in this world will forever remain unknown.
The clock is now 9:00 PM… a spoon has arrived. It sits there, gleaming.
The clock is now 9:30 PM. The spoon is still here. My companion. My only friend. It seems the service is completely out of sync, a chaotic ballet of items being brought and left behind without reason. The wine we received for the meat is now warm and tastes, unsurprisingly, not very good.
The clock is now 9:34 PM.
Dessert is here. Placed on the table. No explanation. I have to ask what it is. I’m told I can eat it "however I want." The presentation is a joke—an upside-down mug with a cookie on top meant to look like a cactus.
Presentation: 0/5. They’re not even trying.
Taste: 2/5. It's okay. The textures clash and it looks like a mess. The idea was probably that it would be so delicious you'd overlook this. The idea was wrong.
Overall Verdict
Service: 2/5
Food: 2/5
Presentation: 1/5
Amount of food: 0.5/5
My partner, Hans, leans over and whispers the most profound truth of the evening: "Good thing I have banana chips in the room."
My vegan friend adds, "It’s incredible they have a Green Star."
I cannot, for the life of me, understand how this restaurant received a Michelin star. This is a direct challenge to the guide and its inspectors.
Overall Rating: 1/5. I would recommend it to my worst enemy.
P.S. I’m going out for a burger