Woke up Saturday morning with my head on fire after spending Friday evening trying to beer-away a truly horrible week. I wanted bar food. I needed a Bloody Mary. And possibly a wheelchair. After much discussion with the Man O' The Hour, who gamely joined me in the Friday Night Booze Sadstravaganza because he is truly a gem of a person, we decided on the Lemon Bar, a West Village booze joint.
In hindsight, I should have known better than to hang out in an Uptown bar showing the Baylor-OSU game at the buttcrack of a Saturday morning. Because not only is it really sad to watch people root for Baylor and OSU -- I mean, I know it's the best some people can do, and I respect that in a those-kittens-with-fainting-goat-syndrome-are-adorable-and-sad kind of way, but it is also really awful to have your head on fire when trying to park within a mile of the West Village at any hour of the day. We should have gone to the Gold Rush and headed home stat for some custom Bloodies. But we didn't. We went to the Lemon Bar.
What I'm saying is that I know I was in a crappy mood by the time we got to the bar and didn't really appreciate being shoved into a forgotten corner with some yammering 6-year-old and her posh mom. Aters, I ask you: Who brings a child to a bar? I don't care if the establishment serves food and it's 11 a.m. Take your damned kid to the International House Of Wherever They Don't Serve Body Shots. Consider moving to Park Slope, where they embrace that kind of assininery. All's I'm saying is, there are like 50 million restaurants in that development that are not bars and that do cater to kids, and the Lemon Bar is not one of them, and I am going to take some deep breaths now.
Besides, why bitch about the annoying clientele when we can talk about the Lemon Bar's terrible service, lazy drinks and atrocious decor?
The Bloody Marys were $8 each and didn't even come in a salt-rimmed glass. They were served with a toothpick speared with one sad freaking bar olive and an anemic lime slice. Our waitress told us they were made with Zing Zang, which means they were at least drinkable but, again, overpriced considering the place offers unlimited Mimosas for $8. Allow me to anthropomorphize: Bars that discriminate against Bloody Mary drinkers are the alcohol-serving establishment equivalent of Nice Guys. They are like, look at all we have to offer you that you are not interested in! We are going to throw a fit at you because you do not want the little we are really willing to give you! Here, drink this crappy orange thing! No? Allow us to cry about it and overcharge you for enjoying something that we don't think you should like! Wah wah wah, etc.
The drinks were an ugly scene, but not nearly as bad as the food service disaster, which could have been solved with something as simple as the server repeating our order back to us, but wasn't, and oh, here's hindsight rearing its ugly head again. I ordered the eggs Benedict and Man O' The Hour ordered the steak and eggs. Except for when he said "I will have the steak and eggs," the server thought he said "I will have the same thing," referring to my order of eggs Benedict. So here came two orders of eggs Benedict after they'd cranked up the football volume to 11 because what we all want before noon o'clock is some assbag announcer yelling plays in our ears. Anyway, we said to the server, nope, we had a steak and eggs, and they are like oh, really? And we said said yes, really. So they left me my plate of Benedict, which I could have eaten several times over by the time they finally brought out Man O' The Hour's steak and eggs.
The food was fine and our entrees were $9 for the eggs and $11 for the steak, so at least we didn't break the bank while twiddling our thumbs waiting for our order to be corrected. Of course, I'm not actually recommending you eat the food because I don't recommend you go to this place, but whatever, if you find yourself there because you've got some minor-peripheral friend who insists on celebrating his or her birthday at Lemon Bar because multi-use developments make that friend supremely happy, you are probably gonna like your food OK. I didn't take a picture of it because I forgot, I think because I was distracted by the wall I was facing for the entirety of the meal, which is pictured here:
I stared at that inspiring piece of butt for the length of two meals because of the server flub-up. Between the stupid wall, my headache, the horrible service, the overpriced drinks and the kid at the other table, I honestly think I may be entitled to some kind of thank-you letter from my fellow diners for not going postal on their asses. I'll say you're welcome in advance, guys. Because you are.