First World Problems

It's nice to be able to treat yourself to a fancy dinner every once in awhile. You can get out of the house, dress up, get served by gracious waiters and waitresses, sit in interesting settings, peruse extensive wine lists, and enjoy fine dining. Even people who are fairly proficient in the kitchen can appreciate the quality ingredients, interesting food combinations, and artful presentations talented chefs work with. Going out to dinner can making eating an especially pleasurable experience. I enjoy sharing meals with good company, talking over a few bottles of wine.

Then there are the experiences that mimic the Citibank commercial where the couple dines in a five-star restaurant, only to pick up convenience store snacks on the way home because they're still hungry.

On Friday night, my dinner was more like the latter experience. It was a friend's birthday, and she wanted to go to a trendy Asian restaurant on Lincoln Road (which is a trendy area in trendy South Beach. Yeah...I know.) Knowing what this meant, my boyfriend made a sandwich, and I ate a bowl of oatmeal before heading out. We walked up to the eatery, and if the bouncer at the door was any indication, we were in for an unpleasant experience.

We walked in and were shrouded in darkness. Disturbingly loud techno music blared from the speakers. In the dim light, we spotted our friends and squeezed into the seating area. The birthday girl apologized; she didn't know we would be simultaneously eating and suffering permanent hearing loss.

We yelled our orders to our waitress. "Sorry, we don't have the Spider roll tonight." Ok. "We're out of edamame." But you're an Asian restaurant...moving right along. "The only beer we have is Budweiser." Then we knew that something was seriously wrong.

We found ourselves gesticulating wildly, as if we were in a Spanish soap opera. Our "table" was too small to hold all of our plates and glasses, and we knew that if we weren't careful, our corner would turn into a soy sauce slip-and-slide. The tuna tartar tower was more of a molehill than a mountain, and we had to reorder all of the dishes again because the portions were more suitable for Lilliputians than normal-sized people.

Why would the establishment that I have just described pretend to be a place for eating? Why is the word "grille" in its name? Most importantly, why does it have a fully stocked bar and yet only offer one kind of beer?!

Places like this should just store alcohol in their kitchen spaces, call themselves lounges, and call it a day. They should leave the food service to places that don't aim to be clubs.