Thanks to a New Year’s Eve misadventure, my formerly beloved Bilbo Baggins bar/restaurant is heretofore known as Dildo Baggins.
It’s a shame, too, since the beer list is killer, the wine list isn’t too shabby, the bartenders are absolute babydolls, and it’s a special place for us because it’s where Internet friends turn into bona fide, cherished friends for life.
It’s also where I turned slightly homicidal on NYE when all I wanted to do was kill time before First Night fireworks that, incidentally, didn’t happen because it was too windy and I would NEVER have made this damn reservation had I known that.
Here’s my Open Table review, since it killed me to write it but I’m not one to have a shitty experience and not share it with the world:
I’ve dined at Bilbo’s about a dozen times in the last two years and expected it would be a great place to spend NYE. Well, that’s the last special occasion I’m giving this place.
My reservation was for 9 p.m. At 9:36, I asked our hostess to re-seat us in a section where servers were actually SERVING people. I was in the back room that had six tables, so it was hard to miss us.
When a server finally did come by at 9:45, I ordered the “Terrine 208,” which promised prosciutto mousse and Gruyere on crepes. Really? I got ham and cheese strips over a bed of onion slices. I hate onions but I was too hungry to complain.
The bartenders are great and the hostess was apologetic, but I’m disappointed at how I had to usher in 2009: with incompetence.
Open Table also gives you the chance to write a small note to the restaurant. Which, I’ll give the longer version of the story.
OK, when I go to any restaurant, I usually start at the bar and take my drinks to the table. I had been having a great time at the bar and loved the servers. So, I wanted to order another round before I cashed out, so that I could give the bar staff a better tip because they deserved it.
Later, the hostess came to visit me to see whether I had gotten served yet, and she said it was her fault for not alerting the servers that I was arriving with drinks in hand. According to her, all the servers who were hanging around (as it was busy but no busier than a normal Saturday night, IMHO) assumed someone else was taking care of my table because there were adult beverages there.
Really? I said I was glad I had brought drinks with me since everyone saw fit to see me sitting there with MENUS for the first 40-odd minutes of my visit. After you walk past a table for the ninth time, don’t you get suspicious as to why people are gnawing on the damn table legs?
The food was good when it came, despite the stinky, oniony awfulness of the Terrine 208. (I’d wanted the duck spring rolls but my companion did not.) The filet was fabulous; the veal was divine.
And I tipped well, despite my better judgment. It was a holiday, after all. And I hope that fruity flamethrower who was ordained to wait on us (and treated us like he was God’s gift to us) realized that we were just ordinary nice people going out for what could have been an extraordinarily nice night instead of having to settle for less than the bare minimum. Maybe next time he’ll be a little nicer and, oh I don’t know, cognizant of the fact that he’s working for tips.