The Thing About Philadelphia.

The thing about Philadelphia is that I feel like most restaurants here are trying to fuck me over.

Not in the normal way a restaurant fucks a person over either.  The normal way is like a symbiotic fucking over.
It’s like “yeah I’m totally going to over charge your for this, because I have to make a profit.  But at the same time, you’re going to think it’s delicious and you’re going to have a good time eating here.  And I hope you’ll come back in the future when you want to eat food you’re being over charged for.”

In Philadelphia it’s like “yeah, I’m totally going to over charge you for this, and because you’re in Center City I assume you’re a tourist or a knave so I’m SERIOUSLY going to over charge you and also use crap quality ingredients.”

No. No more Philadelphia, I call Bull Shit.

The days of consumers being powerless against you are over.  The days of having to trust a bunch of mostly corrupt food critics to tell you if a place is worth your time or not, done.

I just want you to know, Mr. or Mrs. Scum-Of-The-Earth restaurant owner, I personally have a twitter, a facebook, a grub hub, a seamless, a yelp, an eGullet, two blogs, a city-data account and somewhere (if I dug deep enough) I still have a myspace floating around.  Let me count the ways in which I will haunt your sham of a business… TEN.  It’s TEN ways.  (Or 11 if you count all the people I will tell in person about your shit hole).

I don’t care if every other person in the whole world thinks you deserve “like a billion stars for deliciousness.”  If you piss me off you’ll be burned in my mind forever as not even deserving one star made of poop.

Is this too harsh?  No.  No it isn’t.  I’m not talking about innocent offenses here.  I’m not talking about the delivery guy who’s 5 minutes late, or the place that’s packed on a Friday night and the server is running behind, or even the place where I order an unsweetened ice tea and get sweetened. This isn’t about the place that didn’t realize I hadn’t being waited on yet, or that forget the dinner roll with my pasta, or even the place that disregarded my explicit direction for “dressing on the side.”

I’m not talking about mistakes, or slip-ups, or the occasional bad dish.  I’m talking about big screw ups, the kind of thing where if I were a dumber person I might not realize, but because I do realize I’m pissed.  The kind of things where a place is just clearly lacking in quality of food and service and just does not give a fuck.  Where I can eat only one bite of my dish and they won’t even ask me if something was wrong with it, because they know why you didn’t eat it.  It sucks.  It’s shitty quality and they don’t care because they already got your money and there are a billion other poor saps in the world lined up behind you who know a lot less about food and whose pallets will be blinded by your special on margaritas anyway.

Just remember this for the future, Mr. or Mrs. Scum-Of-The-Earth.  Remember that we live in a media world now, and I am a media girl. Remember that next time you decide to send someone “tabouli” consisting of huge ugly chunks of mealy tomatoes, barley chopped parsley, and no bulgur wheat to speak of (Al Zaytouna). Think about it next time someone order Portobello fajitas and you bring them almost raw, oily sweet peppers and onions with no Portobello in sight (El Zarape).  And you better be thinking about it next time someone orders a chili rellano and you send them a pepper filled with cheese that isn’t even melted and that is breaded with the equivalent of greasy cardboard (The Mexican Post Old City).

I’m watching you, and I’m not afraid to tell the world that you suck and also to suggest to them a much better alternative to your crappy establishment.

If you are one of those alternatives, more power to you.  I’m sure I’ll be writing about you soon enough.

And that’s the thing about Philadelphia.



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