Lazarus T.
Google
⭐☆☆☆☆ A Royal Disappointment: The Culinary equivalent of a Wet Fortune Cookie
Let me be perfectly clear: I have eaten questionable food from street vendors in foreign countries with less trepidation than I felt consuming my meal at Royal China. The "Royal" in the name must be a reference to the sheer audacity it takes to serve food this tragically mediocre and charge money for it.
My journey into this gastronomic abyss began with hope. The restaurant is unassuming, which in retrospect should have been my first clue. We started with the Pork Dumplings. The menu called them "juicy." The kitchen, however, apparently interpreted "juicy" as "a desiccated wad of spiced cardboard encased in a doughy, leaden purse." They arrived lukewarm, with a dipping sauce that tasted like soy sauce cut with tap water and regret.
For my main, I ventured for the Kung Pao Chicken, a classic dish that should sing with the harmonious flavors of chili, peanut, and a hint of sweetness. What arrived was a crime scene on a plate. The chicken had the rubbery, springy texture of a poorly made eraser, suggesting it had taken a long, sad journey from freezer to wok. The peanuts were so stale they had lost their crunch and taken on a faintly bitter, rancid quality. And the sauce? It was a gloopy, one-note assault of sugar and cornstarch, completely devoid of any heat or complexity. It was less "Kung Pao" and more "vaguely brown, sweet sludge."
My dining companion, in a fit of optimism, ordered the Beef with Broccoli. The broccoli was a depressing, olive-drab mush, having been boiled into submission long before it ever saw the wok. The beef was so tough and stringy it required a concerted effort to chew, turning what should have been a pleasant meal into a jaw workout. The entire dish was swimming in a salty, generic brown sauce that could have been ladled onto anything from shoe leather to actual broccoli with the same lack of distinction.
The Fried Rice was an afterthought in every sense of the word. It was the bland, clumpy white rice from the bottom of the pot, tossed with a few frozen peas and carrots and a single, lonely strand of scrambled egg. It had no wok hei, no soul, no reason for existing other than to take up space on the plate.
The final insult wasn't just the food, but the sheer apathy it represented. This wasn't food prepared with care or passion; it was food assembled with a profound sense of "good enough." Every bite tasted like the chef had given up on life years ago and the kitchen was just going through the motions.
In summary, Royal China Santa Rosa serves food that is not just bad; it's profoundly forgettable and yet, somehow, memorably terrible. You will leave not angry, but sad—sad for the ingredients that died in vain, sad for your taste buds, and sad for the money you will never get back. Do yourself a favor: drive past Royal China. Go to the grocery store, buy a frozen dinner, and eat it in your car. I promise you, it will be a more authentic and satisfying culinary experience.