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Manhattan

No Memoirs of [a] Geisha

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No Memoirs of [a] Geisha

Nina W. | Mar 29, 2004 11:04 PM

Perhaps it was the loud disco music playing. Or the crowd, an ever-so-unpleasantly amusing mix of sleazy and cheesy. Or maybe the staff’s loud arguments around and near us, in every location in which we were seated throughout the evening – bar, lounge, and dining room. The warm, bad Sancerre by the glass was really oh so charming too. Oh yeah, the dirty rags on the stations near our heads, now there’s a nice touch. Oh, did I mention the open garbage cans in the corridor? How about when all of our food, cooked and raw, came at once, after we asked for a specific order, and there was literally no room on the table, and we had to ask to have some of it taken away to be brought back later? Wait, I know – we didn’t get a wine list after having asked for one about 4 times. And there was the hovering busboy who cleared every single utensil and plate as it was finished, within seconds actually. At one point my companion was finished before me, and actually told the busboy to wait and clear when I was finished. And silly me, I thought it was customary for a waitress to go around the table to talk to the people adjacent to us, and not actually talk over our heads. Oh, the two screaming parties of 6 in the small room where we were seated- and the singing of Happy Birthday – always a lovely treat.

The words “classy” and “Geisha” shall never be uttered in the same breath. Who on earth is running this place???

Oh yes, the food. Hamachi tartare, fine but nothing memorable. Bland consommé with overcooked cockles in it. Pleasant enough piece of cod, in a brown sauce which did nothing to enhance the fish, and a very good plate of sushi and sashimi. Totally forgettable desserts.

Stay home. Order a pizza, drink a beer, and watch "Everybody Loves Raymond." Same vibe, less money.

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