Going out to eat is full of risk and high stakes. You pay a pretty penny to actually sit down in a real restaurant and have a waiter bring your food to you, so obviously you want to get the most out of your investment. Well, I tried to do just that, and that’s when it all went tumbling downhill like a train flying off the tracks. That’s right: I asked my waiter which of two dishes I should get, and their answer was the wrong one.
When I first started studying the menu of this Australian restaurant (whatever that means), the Impossible Burger with special house sauce and fries immediately jumped out at me. Obviously, it sounded delicious, but then I saw the truffle gnocchi with kale pesto. I was at an unworkable impasse.
The gnocchi sounded really good to me, and should I really spend $17 on a burger? I could literally get an Impossible patty at the store, and the rest was just white bread and American cheese. What a rip-off! The gnocchi on the other hand was a total specialty item: something I’d never make at home, and would likely enjoy. So when our server came in their little apron to take our orders, I did what anyone would do and asked, “I’m really torn beyond the Impossible Burger and the gnocchi; do you have any thoughts?”
I swear to the Lord above that I am not making this up simply to shock and scare readers when I recount the following: They said, “Definitely the gnocchi.” Definitely. The. Gnocchi.
I’m sorry, what?! You’re not even going to say to me, “Well, that depends. Are you in the mood for a burger?” which, by the way, yes I was. It was so aggressive and assuming I nearly fainted.
The waiter’s job is not to serve as a tyrannical monarch, but rather an emotional support psychic. They should suss out which dish I really want and then offer me support and encouragement to place that order. Make me feel okay about NOT getting the gnocchi. I want French fries!!
The affront was so stunning, my eyes glazed over as my soul rushed out of my malnourished (still hadn’t ordered) body.
“Are you okay?” the evil waiter asked. “Are they having an allergic reaction?”
Um, yeah. I’m allergic to strangers dictating what I eat. I was between a rock and a hard place, like that movie, except this was even more painful than watching James Franco act for 94 minutes.
In the end, I got the gnocchi, because I literally didn’t have a choice. What’s more, they didn’t even comp it despite it being virtually force-fed to me. So if you’re reading this: Be careful whose food-handling, licensed hands you put your life into. They just might fucking destroy it.
Anyway, the gnocchi was pretty good! 3.5 stars.
