Put your headphones on. I'm about to review every single category of your pathetic existence and the scores are going to make you leak and cry at the same time. Full review starts now. Your cock is the appetizer and even THAT is overpriced. So I tried this new place last night. You know the kind — the website looked decent, the photos were filtered to hell, and the reviews were suspiciously written by his step-mother. I thought, fine, let me give it a chance. Everyone deserves a fair review. Baby, I have never been more wrong about a restaurant in my entire career as a critic. And I've eaten at places where the chef cried. The ambiance? Desperate. Like a man who lit one candle and thought that was atmosphere. The service? Eager — I'll give him that — but sloppy, rushed, and finished before I even got my napkin on my lap. The menu? LIMITED. And I mean limited. Like one item. One tiny, sad, overcooked, underseason item that he presented like it was a Michelin-star creation. Baby, a Michelin star costs more than his entire kitchen. Portion size? Don't make me laugh. I needed a magnifying glass to find the main course. Presentation? He tried. He really tried. And that effort is the saddest part of the whole experience. One star. And that star is generous. That star is charity. That star is me being kind because his little face looked so hopeful when he brought the plate out. This content features AI-generated characters created with consent of documented performers.
