I hate to kick a restaurant when it's down. And between the whole kerfuffle over M. Wells losing its lease and the Alan Richman ruckus, I decided to let the dust settle before I offered up my two-cents about this incredibly hyped Quebecois-meets-Queens restaurant.
To make a long and tiresome story short: I just want my two-cents back. In fact I want every single penny that I plunked down for the bill at the end of the evening.
Call me a curmudgeon, but if I'm going to wait for over two-hours for a meal, I expect said meal to be worth the wait. In the case of my recent dinner at M. Wells with the inimitable Lady M -- no such luck.
The cramped room was bad enough. The lack of proper air-conditioning made it a notably schvitzy evening too. And, the oblivious hipster woman sitting behind me who decided to whip her Rapunzel-like mane behind her and into my face was a special treat.
In the end though, I figured the food would make up for these failings.
Not so much.
Case in point, the Tomato Tart pictured above. It sounded marvelous: fresh tomatoes and gruyere cheese on a delicate crust. What we got was a slab of greasy pastry drenched with copious amounts of Dijon mustard, sprinkled with a bit of cheese and topped with a few thin wimpy slices of tomato. It was capped off with an unstoppable pool of oil.
Ick!
The Caesar Salad with Herring was a bit better, but the romaine was so slicked down with dressing and overpowered by a shower of cheese, that I had a hard time getting more than a few bites down. The Steak Tartare was a dreadful gloppy mess, accompanied by Flintstone-size mammoth hunks of bread.
The Lobster Roll that we split was definitely a saving grace -- but a saving grace that came with an ample amount of both mayo and butter. It may have been yummy, but I could feel my arteries clogging within seconds of it sliding down my gullet.
All in all, it was a big greasy, stomach rumbling, unfortunate excuse for a meal.
Thank goodness for dessert.
After a major disappointment of a dinner, we gleefully lay waste to a gorgeous slice of M. Wells' Maple Pie.
Next time -- if there is a next time -- I'm skipping the main menu altogether and going straight for dessert.
But, perhaps I'll just forgo the spot altogether.
I don't care what Bon Appetit says, there are many other restaurants in New York worthy of my attention and wallet. And, if need be, I'm sure I can figure out how to make Maple Pie at home.
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