Eff You, Moutarde

I’m always up for trying new restaurants in the neighborhood, so I was excited to go to Moutarde (239 5th Ave, on the corner of Carroll St.) on Valentine’s Day.

The long and short of it was that our food was mediocre and the service absolutely sucked. The fifteen-year-old waitress couldn’t tell us the specials because “they were still figuring them out” despite the fact that it was 6pm.

What is there to figure out? Is Jean Paul out at the store, still buying shit for tonight’s dinner service? Doubtful. I’ll make it easy for you: how about fucking rack of lamb, okay? Christ almighty, Moutarde, get your shit together.

We ordered, sans specials, and after waiting over an hour and a half for our entrees, I flagged down our waitress:

Me: Hey, what’s the story?
Waitress: (blank stare)
Me: ….about our dinners?
Waitress: Oh, you haven’t gotten them yet? I’ll go check.

Yeah, okay, thanks. When we got the check, we tipped appropriately—10% is what you get for shitty service.

What fun it was opening my most recent credit card statement to see that someone there had disagreed with our evaluation of the service, and bumped the 10% tip up to 20%.

Oh, hey, Bank of America—take care of that for me, thanks.

And Moutarde?—suck it.