I don’t think anyone at Mas is getting laid.
I should start by establishing the fact that people who eat and work at Mas appear to be young, progressive, well-off, and self-interested like people who have sex in all its forms, often. But after eating or serving there, one can not possibly be so inclined.
I’ll begin with the eaters. In most restaurants, a half-hour or hour wait is a pleasant opportunity to have a cocktail and talk with your company. In Mas, you press up against the door trying not to spill a cucumber ginger martini while servers enter orders to the computers. If you’re lucky, you get a wooden box to sit on. Once you’re seated for dinner on the main floor, you’re staring at the Joe Jeans labels of the waitlisted yuppies. To be honest, ass is not appetizing.
You sit. You’re picking olive pits from your mouth and putting the gnarled remains in the middle of the table. You order. How many foods can one wrap in various kinds of bacon? Dates, yes, yum, I get it. Melon, are you not tired of this yet? Quail legs, really? This is not sexy food. The bread is almost always burnt. And let’s discuss portion. The portion of the $12 chicken decreases proportionally to the number of people in the party, and yet the price does not go with it. And the mussels are just out of the question if you want to get laid at all.
Perhaps the worst offense is the distinct aroma, the kind of malange of burnt tomato, raw whitefish, garlic, and sweat that makes one want to rip clothes off. To wash them. Immediately.
The same applies for the servers, to be sure. They may wear Eau de Mas permanently. But I’m more concerned with the decorum—the Sunday brunch dispute over the music, the ten minute wait for your drink, the emphatic nudge of the bill when your plates have been cleared but you aren’t leaving—I mean, this is typical of people who ask for massages and conveniently fall asleep when it’s time to reciprocate. To their credit, they can almost always find me a cigarette after the meal.
Mas is a playboy. We’re getting screwed. I miss the flirtation with Spanish cuisine and the slow, sensual dining experience that once characterized Mas in Charlottesville. I think Mas needs to recognize its own maturity and status in
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This is the only post I’ve read so far that I agree with 100% I’ve eaten at MAS twice and both times I didn’t pay ance I got A thirteen dollar Sardine That’s one thirteen dollar sardine that was definitly not fresh and the other time the service was so offal that I vowed never to return. The food is medicore and the service is even worse.
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