When did it become acceptable to feed people next to nothing and charge them an entire two-week’s paycheck for those crumbs? Ok, ok—I jest about the paycheck, but really, at the heart of my beef (no pun intended) is that some restaurants seem to have made their mark by charging astronomical prices for food that is about the size of a piece of nigiri. There’s simply no justification for this new trend and most certainly, not during this depressed economic period.

Now, I’m not referring to a restaurant like Moto. There’s some culinary genius there. But people simply don’t go to Moto for dinner—they go for the entire chemical, gastronomical and even somewhat magical experience of trying, oh say, foam that tastes like a cheeseburger or a piece of what appears to be a marshmallow but actuality tastes like carrot cake. It takes incredible skill in playing with the chemical makeup of these food stuffs. So, I and certainly other people can see the point of paying an arm and a leg for the entire evening—once.

But that’s simply not true for places like Graham Elliot. In fact, my husband left the highly lauded restaurant Friday night still hungry and we actually had to order sushi right after spending about $200 and about an hour and a half of our valuable Friday relaxation time in the cramped, cacophonous and just overly snotty rabbit hole.

Upon arrival, we were greeted with three hostesses, each on vying for the crown of Miss Most Tattooed. Though we were on time, we were asked whether we’d like to have a couple of drinks at the bar. I instinctively thought that perhaps the restaurant was packed and our table wasn’t ready. Nope, upon a closer inspection, the restaurant was about 90 percent empty on a Friday night at 7pm. Needless to say, we passed on drinks. The tattooed hippie chick led us to a tiny table up against a wall—you know, one of those tables where the hostess actually has to pull the table out to let you in. That’s enough for me to turn anorexic, let alone want to eat at the restaurant. After snuggly fitting into the seat and having been boxed in by a tiny 24 inch wide table, my better half and I were ready to be wowed.

Our waiter arrived and clearly appeared to be on speed as he threw the menus at us and tried to run away without saying much. My husband valiantly tried to ask for a recommendation on a beer and actually had his eyes on one but the waiter resolutely told him that he’d like it only if he have a love affair with ginger and tried to dissuade him from that $12 beer to better one, say the $17 dollar one. Nonetheless, my husband ordered that supposedly gingery beer that turned out to be not gingery at all and quite tasty, actually. I, on the other hand, ordered something that was to be a peachy-esque mojito but turned out to be nothing more than a sugary, syrupy mess of a margarita. The following vodka martini came out in a scotch glass. Really? I had no words.

To start, we were served popcorn with chives and black pepper and somewhere in there was to be truffle oil. You’d have to be Magellan to find that truffle oil in the popcorn. After filling up on the corn, much like little piggies in a pen, we wanted our dinner. Well, by the end of the meal, we were still wanting our dinner.

As an appetizer, we wanted to share the fig and ricotta cold plate. The two figs were the size of two green table grapes. The ricotta was the size of chewed up piece of gum. Miniscule and unappetizing and certainly nothing to share—unless you’re a mouse. Next, my husband had a deconstructed caesar salad with a twinkie and an anchovy. The lettuce was literally a rectangle about an inch wide and two inches long. That’s it. the anchovy was sliced in thirds with each third sitting on that lettuce something or other. Oh, and that twinkie thing—it was no bigger than half of a small apricot. (See photo. Note, that's a dinner plate.) All this brouhaha over something that tasted just “alright.” According to my husband, “Nothing special.” I had the squash soup which arrived in a beaker, all 2 ounces of it, and the cold concoction got poured over a tiny marshmallow. How quaint. 

At this point, I was waiting to be wowed by something—hopefully the entrees. Nope. That’s a no go. My local whitefish (where the hell is it local from?— if it’s from Lake Michigan, well, that would explain the taste) was so tiny and so bland and so unseasoned. Now I’m no Barefoot Contessa but come on, throw some kosher salt on that puppy! The only good thing on the plate was the hot sauce which I’m sure was there to mask the taste. Oh, and the fish was about half the size of my iphone. I refuse to talk about the granola-like stale quinoa that was hiding under the fish.

My husband had some highly-acclaimed wagyu beef that was cooked for 15 hours. I think our cats’ food smells and looks better than what was placed before him. Because he was hungry, he ate it all up within two minutes. And at this point, I gave him half of my entrée because I just about had enough and I felt bad for him. The man’s a mathematician. He works 12 hour days. He gets hungry.

No, we don’t want dessert or coffee or anything else. No, we didn’t like our three waiters or the food coming out within minutes of each other. No, we don’t think any of the accolades for the restaurant are deserved. Oh, and no, we don’t want a picture with the rotund chef on the way out and oh, by the way, he didn’t get to be blimp-sized from eating at his own restaurant. There’s just no excuse for all the nonsense about this Graham Elliot. For about $200, we should have been happily satiated—think, Capital Grille or any steak house around the city. 

Seriously, Graham Elliot and other chefs, the economy is in the shitter. Now’s not the time to be thumbing your nose at your patrons and irreversibly alienating them by your stinginess and greed. Take this morsel of advice: if you’d feed people a reasonable amount of food, even if you sit them in a loud, obnoxious room with tables and chairs made for midgets, you’re restaurant would still be full on a Friday night and people like me wouldn’t be blog-hating on you.