More pertinently, it doesn't matter where vegetables come from if you don't know how to prepare them. On both visits, the daily selection was a julienned medley of overcooked zucchini and yellow squash threaded with under-cooked carrots — thoroughly unseasoned. The kitchen crew couldn't even come up with tomatoes or basil, both ingredients listed in the menu description for shrimp scampi linguini. The "homemade" pasta was pale yellow from eggs, but instead of al dente, the noodles were al mushy. The sauce seemed to be composed of melted butter with a dash of wine, but the dozen medium-sized shrimp were moist and tasty.
Earlier in the evening, shortly after appetizers arrived, I had accidentally knocked over a glass of water. I stood up and spent a few minutes using a couple of cloth napkins to sop up most of the mess. Still, the table remained wet, with a straw lying on it and my water glass empty. No waiter, busperson, or manager observed me cleaning up. Nor did anyone notice anything when removing appetizer plates (one of which was filled with water) or delivering entrées. The staff remained oblivious when lifting those entrées and bringing them to the folks who actually ordered them. Finally, before dessert, the table was wiped, although the water glass was still empty when we left the restaurant. On another visit, we waited five minutes before anyone came to seat us. And when another ten minutes passed before a waiter arrived, I had to stand up and flag one down. Service was horrible. If my dinner guest was at all skeptical upon hearing me blame the tiny, slippery nature of the table for the water spill, doubt must have dissipated when the woman seated next to us knocked a wine bottle to the floor (splattering patrons at the adjacent table on the other side). When somebody's bread plate hit the carpet behind us, well — let's just say vindication is sweet. And let's also say I'd like to own the carpet-cleaning contract for this joint.
Conch fritters
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