Ruffin Prevost
Google
I realize I'm not the target demographic for this spot, but I'm a travel writer with bylines in National Geographic, Reuters, The New York Times and Frommer's. So I get around, and I manage my expectations and temper my opinions accordingly. The Roof was profoundly disappointing.
I grew up in Waynesville and was back to visit my mom, who lives in Asheville. She uses a wheelchair and we spent some time on the nearby greenway along the French Broad River and stopped by around 6 p.m. on a Tuesday in July for a cold drink and bite to eat.
We arrived as the only customers on the roof, and there were at least four staffers there. No one seated us (just "pick a spot"), and then everyone literally disappeared. I've never felt less welcome somewhere in the past two or three years of travels to three continents. It was like the staff were mad because they had to stop gossiping (which they didn't) and watching TV (they switched to their phones). It wasn't until I started trying to raise an umbrella that a server came over to "help." She didn't know how to raise it, so I did.
No menus, no waters, no "what would you like?" no "be right back." Just another disappearing act. The bartender was sitting down behind the bar, a movie was blaring on the TV, clashing with the piped-in mood music, and a couple or three people were posted up in the kitchen, noodling on their phones.
After three other couples came in and sat at the bar and got served while we sat there ignored, I went up to the bar. "Do you want something?" Really!? How'd you guess?
All I can surmise is there's no table service (there certainly wasn't when I was there) and you have to go to the bar to order. Fair enough, but tell me that when I arrive or post a sign or put it on the menus or something. Even a beach shack has a sign that says "order at the bar." Don't treat me and the old lady in the wheelchair like lepers.
Chicken sandwiches and burgers ran about $25 (with fries), and both were spectacularly mediocre. (See actual photo.) Not one person stepped out from behind the bar to deliver a drink or plate, and food arrived in cardboard boxes. I had to ask for a paper plate as an extra. Again, the place was dead. (The old adage that service is worst when it's slowest comes to mind.)
OK, I get it. It's a hipster bar that presumably gets too busy to care late nights and weekends. Food is an afterthought to the cocktail scene. So why care on a Tuesday evening? But if they don't care, why should we?
So please keep in mind that this spot is an appendage to a Hilton hotel draped in the phony trappings of an indy gem, masquerading as a local darling when it's actually a cynical corporate endeavor meant to extract maximum revenue while delivering minimal authentic value.
The view was nice.
