Food Depression

This afternoon I went to a local chain restaurant near Gallery Place.

First of all, that place has all of the atmosphere of an abandoned coal mine. We had to walk up a long staircase and across a football field before sliding akwardly across an overlong booth to my position three persons deep against the wall.

Adding to the oddity: we arrived to hear the theme song from Hair ("grow it, flow it!") issuing from the speakers, lending our lunch an element of absurdity.

I ordered a portobello mushroom sandwich. This was described as a grilled portobello mushroom on foccaccia with herb aioili and roasted tomatoes. Unfortunately, the revolting little number arrived slathered with runny mayonnaise, limp lettuce, and sauteed onions that had the texture and consistency of stringy, pale snot. The whole affair was heaped onto stale, half-heartedly toasted mutli-grain bread and served to me about 30 minutes later.

The greatest offense to my senses? The onions.

Onions are a matter of taste, of course. Maybe you like them. Clearly, the chef likes 'em. But I don't. I detest onions. I also detest when restaurants neglect to apprise me, on the menu, that I might expect my sandwich to arrive covered with the rabid little bastards.

Seriously, I'd rather eat a fried rat.

So a question: Is it just me, or is it completely annoying when a restaurant fails to accurately describe its offerings? I'm not talking about an instance where the menu offers an inadequate description, which is also annoying. Still, if a menu says, "sandwich," I should know to ask "what comes on it?" When it's described with a seemingly high-level of specificity, however, only to come out looking and tasting significantly different, I not only want to send the sandwich back, I want to assault somebody with it.

I could have just sent it back. But to be honest, I wasn't interested in anything else on the menu. I left it sit, abandoned, on my plate, until I almost started feeling bad for the mushroom clad as it was in such unappetizing trappings. If the server noticed I'd left the sebacious monstrosity untouched and uneaten, she made no comment. It showed up on the bill, and I paid it. Maybe that's my fault.

But I won't be back.

Update:

I sent the restaurant a complaint email and got a sincere apology from the general manager. And a gift certificate.

I might be back. Also, I might be a jerk.