A birthday dinner at Brooklyn hot spot Chez Tòny was rocked by a kitchen nightmare last Saturday night, derailing what would have been a perfectly chill birthday party. “I go here a lot and I thought they’d have something for everyone, even the picky eaters—which is legit all of us,” says Larissa Higgs, who was celebrating her 29th birthday with seven of her closest girlfriends.
“I asked for the risotto balls app as my main dish, with a side of the roasted Brussels sprouts to go with it,” recalls Larissa’s best friend, Mira, who planned the outing. “And I recommended them to everyone else at the table.” Every attendee except Danielle (who has a colon thing) added a side of the roasted sprouts to their order. “I read about them in the New York Times Magazine, and was like, ‘I want them,’” Mira explains.
“But then,” laments Larissa, “the waiter came back like two minutes later to tell us they were out of Brussels sprouts. Who runs out of Brussels sprouts?! Especially on my birthday!”
According to head chef Lance, Chez Tòny got a bad crate of sprouts that morning and had to throw away about two-thirds of them; and then, as he puts it, “A bunch of women came at happy hour and ordered all the ones we had left. This thing actually happens a lot.”
Unsurprisingly, Larissa’s party did not take it very well. Despairing looks quickly turned to anger, and a silence overtook the table for several minutes. After looks of anger and resentment were directed toward Mira, she stood up, spouting curse words, then stormed out of Chez Tòny after downing the rest of her mojito.
The remaining seven remained, trying to assuage the almost inconsolable Larissa, but the party had derailed beyond reconciliation. After entrees were finished and the bill was split an even seven ways, the girls all invented excuses to go straight home. “It was the worst birthday I’ve ever had,” says Larissa. “I went to bed hungry on my own birthday. Nobody should ever have to do that.”
It’s unclear as of yet whether the friends will try a “make-up” party for Larissa, or perhaps try dinner at another restaurant in the future. But one thing, after this disaster, remains certain: Mira is fucking out.