I curse the moment I convinced Gerda to have dinner with me in this place - to be honest I wouldn't have entered it if we weren't both so hungry; every other place was packed and queuing for half an hour didn't sound good.
Where do I start? The place itself is a gastropub-looking bistro with a cocktail bar and an inviting, reasonably priced (considering the central location) menu. Nice decor, glass roof, neat contemporary restaurant interiors dimly lit by candles. All good until we ordered the food. The waitress didn't know the actual meaning of the words coeliac and gluten-free so she was a bit confused when Gerda enquired about GF options. There was this fella at the bar who, for some reason, convinced himself we didn't speak English and tried to communicate via pseudo-sign language - I know I'm a bit deaf but come on.
I ordered... you guessed it, steak. Sirloin steak with veggies and a glass of red wine for 20 euros (for that price, my expectations didn't fly too high), some weekend promotion going on. Gerda ordered roast chicken wrapped in bacon paired with cheddar mash, it actually looked better than my steak when it finally made it to our table. She wasn't too impressed, apparently the cheese was too gluey and the chicken a bland fiasco. Now, the steak. Possibly one of the worst I've ever been served. Lukewarm, watery, far from rare and worse, NOT SEASONED. Unforgivable. The only silver lining in this cloud of unsatisfying meat was the subtle, distinctive taste offered by the charcoal grill. If there's something I'm actually great at is cooking the perfect steak and ruining a good cut of meat is a sin. A tragedy, really.
Washed-down-with-Malbec veggies were ok but the sides didn't make up for the catastrophic meal I've had. Can't really complain about the presentation but I wondered why the hell my pepper sauce was placed in a gigantic ramekin. Oh, and I didn't even bother finishing my chips because they were undercooked... I have one friendly advice to the chef: when in doubt, double fry it. I should also reveal that poor Gerda had a bad reaction after our unfortunate dinner. Cross contamination's a bitch. Moral of the story: you get what you pay for.