“Ah shut up silly woman, said that reptile with a grin…”

I have never, in my 42 years of life (unless there’s a childhood story my parents somehow forgot to regale me with), made a scene in a restaurant…until last week. I have never raised my voice at a server, argued with a manager or slammed my hands on a table…until last week. Countless times I’ve had to send things back that weren’t properly cleaned, cooked or served, sure, but it was always met with an apology and a quick fix. What went down last week pissed me off on such a primal level that my fingers strained from the pain of wanting to reach for my computer keyboard in some visceral form of retribution. I tell you this…I am most proud of myself for not cursing my face off as I’m sometimes known to do. But I am least proud of myself for not walking straight out their doors without paying a fucking cent, regardless of the food we did eat. But hey, it was raining and I was in heels, and given the brass set on the two women I dealt with, I guess I was afraid they’d actually catch up, take me down and swipe my purse from under my bruised body.

Portobello Feasts in Oakland, NJ sprawls itself across a corner of suburbia in a failed attempt to resemble a romantic Tuscan villa. The various sections of the restaurant have names like Sala da Pranzo, Cucina Rustica and Osteria that speak of its supposed Italian leanings, and yet there are spring rolls, coconut shrimp, Portuguese mussels and sushi on the menu. Fucking sushi, people!! But absolutely none of this has any bearing on what happened last week. None of it would ever have mattered if the folks that manage the place—the word ladies would be a stretch that would rival any 7th inning—had remembered that they were in the service industry. All would have been right in the Pizzuto universe had they done their jobs which, at the end of the day if a restaurant is to stay in business, is to make customers happy.

I had ordered Filet Mignon Oscar, medium rare, which was supposed to come with crabmeat, asparagus and a béarnaise sauce. I should have known the shit storm was about to begin when the plates arrived and my filet was served sliced. Anyone ever order a filet mignon that came presliced? Anyone? Beuller? Beuller? It didn’t look like it was medium rare but I gave them the benefit of the doubt and took a bite. That I politely spit into my napkin and wrapped up. It wasn’t anywhere in the same galaxy as medium rare. I asked the waiter to please have the kitchen refire the dish because it was definitely overcooked. And just like that the plate was gone.

And three minutes later, just like that, the plate was back, at the end of the extended hand of the maitre d’ who proceeded to tell me that if I would get out of my seat and go to her office with her, where I could see under “better lighting”, I would realize that the steak was, in fact, medium rare. That I was, in fact, completely wrong. That the kitchen, in fact, was refiring absolutely nothing. Of course I refused and continued to ask for a new plate, but she insisted that I was being fooled by the poor lighting in the dining room. So I (the fool, the idiot, the wrong customer) told her if that was their version of medium rare then she should just ask the kitchen to cook it rare. She continued to be belligerent, asking me if I knew what “rare” meant. I insisted that was fine, and just like that the plate was gone.

And three minutes later, just like that, there was a second hellhound that appeared tableside, standing next to hellhound #1, and the damned plate was back. “Ma’am this steak is definitely medium rare. If you’d just…” And that was the last word I heard before I slammed my hands down on the table, sending a half-empty glass of Chianti teetering on its edge. “That’s it!” I screamed. “Take the dish off the damned check and give it to me now!” The few diners there were in the upstairs room…the sala, the osteria, the whatever the hell it was…stared uncomfortably, wondering what could possibly have gone so wrong that an otherwise civil looking woman was ranting like a patient loosed from an asylum.

Not once but twice I had been told that I couldn’t have what I wanted. That they weren’t willing to try to make me happy. That I should get up and follow her to her office so she could prove me wrong. That I was a fool who didn’t know her degrees of doneness and should just shut up and eat what she was served. My rant at the restaurant was a mere ripple-causing pebble. The rant that ensued afterward on Facebook, Twitter, FourSquare, Zagat, Yelp and now on this blog is the avalanche-starting boulder. If you are from Jersey, do yourself a favor and don’t give this restaurant a dime of your money. If you’re from Jersey and you have a conscience, feel free to tell everyone you know what assholes these people are so that they don’t step foot in the restaurant, either. It came as little surprise to read that the bosses at Portobello (aka Beviamo Corp.) are being sued by a former chef under claims that they habitually insulted him (a Latino U.S. citizen) with comments such as, “Get used to it, Taco Boy, because illegal(s) got no rights in this country; you guys are lucky we pay you.” Unless you like your meals served with a heaping side of Crudites, stay the hell away.

Tagged as: italian, oakland nj, Portobello restaurant