Yelp Reviews

Real actors reading Yelp reviews. This shit cracks me up and fuck Yelpers and people that complain about dining out, unless you are Mr. Onions.





via Forever Floral

Mr Onions: Buca Di Beppo

I truly enjoy birthday parties. It's a chance for someone to be the most important person for a night with all of their closest loved ones. Some choose to throw a big party in their honor, others like to keep it low key, and a few just want to go out to a nice dinner celebrating their big day with their favorite people. I was fortunate enough to celebrate Blair's birthday last week with a large group. Finding a restaurant last minute on a Saturday night that could hoard this large of a party is a task in itself, but we eventually found one that could accommodate us. We felt we couldn't be too selective about where or when we would eat, and ended up with a reservation for 20 at the good ol' Buca Di Beppo.

I've done some language research and I've found numerous translations for this over the top Italian eatery. Specifically interpreted as the Hole Of Beppo, keeping traditional namesake with Guiseppe's Hole or as the employees say, Joe's Basement. Whatever the english rewording is, the word hole couldn't be more closer to the truth. This place is an absolute shit hole. It is sensory overload times one million. It's loud, it's bright, it is utterly obnoxious upon opening the front door. Imagine a Chuck-E-Cheese for adults without the skeeball and creepy robotic animal band. The thing is, this place doesn't need the help of Mr. Munch or Pasqually to make you completely uncomfortable. It eye fucks you immediately. You cringe, swallow your fear, and hope that a meatball the size of your head will make it all better.

We had been starving ourselves for hours with dreams of eating our way out of pasta filled swimming pools. Our reservation was for 7:30 and shockingly enough our table was not ready upon arrival. Needing to loosen some stomach muscles, we stockpiled our group into the bar for an aperitif. Some were complaining about the prices of the Peroni and others were mesmerized by the 26,843 pictures of Italian memorabilia on the walls. During our 20 minutes of anticipated waiting we witnessed 3 annoying birthday songs and watched NBA basketball on the big screen. It felt nothing like Rome, but more like a TGI Fridays stuck in the middle of a Naples garage sale. Our party was supposed to be for 20 but we seemed to be missing some people. I'm pretty sure they got lost upon finding us at the bar or looking for the restrooms. I would bet there are probably a handful of my friends still wandering around looking for a way out.



Our meal started with a truly Italian staple, bruschetta. Giant piles of diced tomatoes were falling all over the place as extra crunchy Texas Toast bread rounds tried to keep them at bay. I've never had bruschetta before that was literally just tomatoes and bread. The bread carved into the roof of my mouth with each bite, it was like chewing on rocks. I loaded up on salt and pepper yet none of this still had any flavor. It was as bland as the holy eucharist and we weren't even sitting in the famous Pope Room. Calamari soon joined in on this share affair and started to make things worse. It was basically a heaping of fried breading shaped into rings. I kept adding marinara to each bite to avoid the tiny chunks of burnt grease. The flavor and texture was reminiscent of a school eraser. Not the big white square one, but the pink angled topper that you would put on your Dixon Ticonderoga No. 2 after the original eraser had worn out its welcome. This was grossing me out and my fork was missing.



Luckily for all of us, Buca has their own house wine served in oversized gallon bottles. Drink your heart out, Carlo Rossi. The drinking needed to continue and it needed to continue heavily. If I'm going to eat such shitty dog food, I'm at least going to be drunk as hell so I have a slight chance of enjoying it. The meal limped on with a dying caesar salad served in an actual bathtub. The romaine was wilted and the iceberg was lifeless. They were mashed and mixed together probably over a week ago. The dressing had settled in like soup and even the birds wouldn't eat the croutons. They had the same affect as the bruschetta bread as it cut their way through your gums and into your stomach. At least the little hints of blood dripping from the inside of my mouth added some gusto to an otherwise meaningless meal.



As the entrees arrived, I noticed that my second fork was missing. I'm pretty sure that one of my 5 servers took it away with the appetizers. I can't be too sure which one it was because they are all dressed in white on white outfits and they each carry exactly 9 straws and 12 pens. Why are there five servers anyway? Do we really need this many people to take our orders? I was told this was family style dining but I didn't know that it also included family style service. Four different people then delivered our rigatoni, chicken alfredo, and saltimbocca. The rigatoni was undercooked and completely covered in red pepper flakes. My guess is the chef accidentally knocked over his entire supply of it into our plate and said, "Fuck it." The chicken alfredo was decent but it had way too many peas in it and it left me desiring more. My final hope was the saltimbocca. 34 dollars for 6 small pieces of chicken wrapped in prosciutto?! I swear they just cut up one chicken breast in order to deceive us that this was a big dish. We each took one small bite of the dish and passed it on to the next person. My small bite was good, really good, and I yearned for more. This was the only edible portion of my meal and I was only allowed one measly bite!? All the food here is similar to the food any ordinary college roommate might make but the downside is they don't give you bong rips at the door to make everything taste better. I downed another glass of red and struggled through my remaining al dente rigatoni.



Damn, this place sucks. For the past ten minutes they have been playing Indian music! Can you at least throw on some Pavarotti or Dean Martin singing That's Amore? Shit, play The Lady and The Tramp soundtrack. Anything is better than what's going on in the background. This restaurant must put something in the sauce to brainwash you into coming back again and again. They make you believe quantity is better over quality and you walk out thinking you got a good deal on this much low budget pasta. I'm never coming here again. I don't care if the president himself eats here on his birthday, I'm not going. Guiseppe can kiss my ass for all I'm concerned. Where is my fork, again? I need to stab myself immediately.

Mr. Onions Rating (on a 1-10 scale)
Food: 2 Service: 3 Atmosphere: 0
Overall: 1.6

Mr. Onions: B & O Espresso

Sometimes you go to a restaurant for the food and other times you go to a place for the atmosphere. When one of your friends is working you most likely will stop in, have a drink, and say hello. Then there are places so conveniently close to you, you must go to them. Sometimes you don't want to grocery shop, or walk 20 blocks, or hop on a bus for 40 minutes to hit some of your favorite watering holes. You go there because of location. It's right next door. People are inside everyday seemingly enjoying themselves so it must be good. Right?

I have lived near B & O for almost 2 years and I cannot remember one time where I have actually enjoyed anything. I keep trying. I keep wanting something good to come out of this dimly lit shit hole. They continually let me down. The coffee tastes like burnt tar. The quiche lays there like a lifeless, soaking wet corpse. The service has usually been from the slowest humans on the planet. Every time I enter, a group of chubby mustached men greet me with a sweat drenching hello. Why are there three to four of you? Why are all of you sweating so profusely? What am I getting myself into?!

My lady and I were heading back home after a nice evening of drinking and partying with DTTTC at Winner's Circle. It was an early 10pm. We were just hitting our groove. Our buzz was perfect. We reached the moment of the night that no matter what we did, it would be a grand ol' time. Both of us were easy to please with big smiles on our faces. I didn't want to stand on the corner of Belmont & Olive for 25 minutes trying to figure out where to go. I wanted a hot meal that I didn't have to prepare. We decided that this was their absolute last chance. If they ruined this moment then I would continually walk by this place forever.

After a solid 20 minutes of waiting for our appetizer, our Stuffed Dates had arrived. We each took one bite of these pancetta wrapped, blue cheese filled bird droppings and immediately wanted to gag. This had to be one of the grossest things I've eaten in a while. It tasted like one of the old dried up raisins that gets stuck to the bottom of the box. It was dry. It was chewy. It was Charleston Chew chewy. I reluctantly washed down another one with a big gulp of ice water. This place had immediately sucked all the positivity and fun right out of me.



Another 20 minutes later our entrees finally arrived. I ordered the Grilled Flank Steak. Medium rare. I felt like it was the easiest item on the menu to not fuck up. It was served with a helping of mashed potatoes and sauteed spinach. Meat, potato, vegetable. These three items together have been my staple for the past 10 years. Of course, somehow this place has ruined a simple meal for me as well. The spinach was soupy and lacked any apparent flavor. The potatoes were delicious but served cold. Ice water cold. Like, I am about to pick it up and make a potato snow ball and throw it across the room cold. My flank steak was prepared to a nice overcooked temperature of well done. It was covered in erratic splashes of port wine. I didn't bite the steak. I didn't want to. I had had enough and sent it back. I never send anything back! The server knew it was wrong. It was like he expected it to be wrong and apologized before I complained. He was genuinely bummed when stating how inconsistent the cooks were.



I told the waiter I'd just pick on my lady's plate for the remainder of the meal. She got the Arabesque. A bowtie pasta with salmon tossed in a lemon, garlic, and caper dill cream sauce. Upon first bite I longed for my meal that I had so recently returned. This was tasteless mushroom soup. I piled on the salt. I loaded up on pepper. It was fishy yet gamey. It was mushy and chewy. It was hot baby food for adults. No real salmon, just the the lips, eyes, and assholes of the fish. It was chum the sharks wouldn't eat. My taste buds were climbing out of my mouth fully enraged. They hopped onto my face to smack me around for making the bad decision of taking another bite. They thought I was playing a cruel joke on them and haven't trusted me since.

The server returned and offered up dessert, the one thing this place actually does right. As much as my lady enjoys the Red Velvet Cake here, we decided against it and just had to get out. I do appreciate the server, I will tell you that much. After all we've already been through, he did his job and still tried to sell us on more. He knew how terrible everything was and wanted to get us something that we might enjoy. I'm glad that the staff knows what they are selling their customers, and I'm glad he did all he could to appease us. My sister-in-law worked here many years ago and I remember that not only was the service great, but the food was equally delicious. Some things do change and not always for the better.



When we stepped outside, I couldn't help but comment on the "Notice of Proposed Land Use Action" that had been up on the side of the building for well over the past year. Apparently, B & O will be closing at the end of the 2011 for what will be a new housing project. I haven't been a huge supporter in all the pop up condominiums that have been gentrifying my Seattle neighborhood. This is the only time I say hurry up and tear this place down. Shut it down TODAY. It is long overdue! Put up condos! Please!! Build me a Wal-Mart! Anything! Throw in a Tully's or Seattle's Best Coffee on the bottom floor and make parking on my street even more unbearable. Bring on the yuppy fucks that I will soon call my neighbors. Anything is better than this glorified soup kitchen on my busy street corner. Bring on the cranes! Build it now! Within a year, I hope not to be tripping over the blood filled syringe a few steps away from my apartment. Someone must have eaten here and tried to kill themselves. I was close.



Mr. Onions Rating (on a 1-10 scale)
Food: 0 Service: 6 Atmosphere: 3
Overall: 3

Mr. Onions: Tango

I completed AP Spanish during my sophomore year of high school. It gave me joy to see my hard work pay off by completing an all senior student class. Only problem was, since I was not a senior, I could not attend the annual trip to Spain. Forreal?!? Young 15 year old Onion himself could speak, write, and understand all aspects of the Spanish language better than anyone else in the class and I had to stay home because of my age?!? I’m allowed to take the class and advance myself as a human, but when it comes to taking in the motherland, my age makes me a liability? This was bullshit. I knew it. My teacher Señor Ecklin knew it. Even the principal of the high school knew it. He said there was nothing he could do because they have "rules." Well here's a rule for you, pendejos: Premiar a los estudiantes que sobresalen en sus estudios. ¡Me cago en tus muertos, putos! After all these years, I am still bothered by this fiasco and my Spanish speaking has dwindled as such. I'd still like to visit Spain. I want to bathe in the wine, enjoy the cuisine, and dance to the music late into the night. Unfortunately for me, tapas right on the cusp of Capitol Hill is all I have.



My lady loves tapas and claims they are the smart way to drink. A little food here, a little drink there, a little more food, another drink. Repeat. Repeat. Enjoy. This sounded like fun and I figured I'd give it a try. We arrive on a Tuesday evening and immediately head toward the bar for the all night happy hour. The hostess had completely ignored us so we took it upon ourselves to find a spot. I find an empty dirty booth which appeared was no longer occupied. I asked the hostess, "Can we sit there?" She looks up with her darkly rimmed cloud smoked eyes and snarls "No." I stand there for exactly 46 seconds looking at her looking down and then say, "Why not?" Her response, "We have to clean it." Listen, I can tell you hate your life but please do not ruin my mine. I know you are here going through the motions. The stacking of menus, opening and closing of the reservation book, and staring down scraping the black polish off of your fingernails is really a trying job. I hate to inconvenience you with sitting at a table that you don't even have to seat me at. If you're not going to clean the table, tell someone else to. Do something! Put down the fourth book of The Twilight Saga, throw a smile on your face, and welcome me to this little part of the world known as Spain.

Upon perusing the menu, little did I know Tango didn't just embrace Spain. There are hints of Cuba, Argentina, and other parts of South America occupying my menu with little hints of Latin fusion. Latin fusion! Ugh! Gross! Where am I?? Something about Americanized Latin restaurants really bugs me. Can't we just pick one fucking country and go with it?! Do we need to integrate eight countries into one brand new type of cuisine? Nothing seemed to make sense as I looked around. I felt like I was deep inside the Mall Of America. The giant roman numeral clock and brightly colored paintings look plum picked right out of an Ikea catalog. The cheesy fluorescent light bulbs glared into my pupils forcing me to look down at my menu. RJD2's Ghostwriter seemed to play on repeat for the entire evening. The constant cackling of nearby downtown co-workers had taken my focus away from the menu. I'm sure you guys are having a good time, but it cannot be that damn funny every single 20 seconds. Shove a napkin in that hyena pie-hole of yours so I can enjoy this upcoming comida auténtica. Luckily, my server arrived and we could get this show on the road. ¡Vamos!

Our waiter was a nice Asian white guy with spiky frat boy hair who was way too excited about everything. He was polite but just a little too over the top for me. I really just wanted him to stop winking and shooting his finger gun at me every time I spoke. I could tell his TGI Fridays training and flair had completely taken over any real chance of seeing his true personality. He was definitely happy to be where he was which made me believe this place couldn't be all bad, can it? At the very least I knew I could get an adderall and Red Bull.



Plates then started to assemble in front of me one at a time every few minutes. It first started with an adorable wooden plate holding warm Spanish corn bread accompanied by a sweet jelly butter. I didn't ask for it, they just brought it. I like that. The butternut squash soup shortly arrived after. I've never had something be spicy and bland at the same time. How can you make something with such a kick, and then it finishes into tasting like the liquid Holy Eucharist? It's like they blended up cotton balls, a habañero pepper, and a few drops of E160b orange food coloring dye. My lady somehow enjoyed this pulpy mediocrity while I was ready for my Carnitas Del Puerco. The plate had just arrived with a bowl of shredded pork and four warm tortillas. These self made tacos were delicious. The multiple flavors were enticing. I closed my eyes and imagined myself walking through Valencia with this in one hand and my beautiful woman in the other. Mi vida era perfecta. I then continued to eat another tiny taco burrito and grease started exploding onto the table. My tortillas were oozing out of control, dripping and dropping pork juice all over. I think that first bite really had me fooled into thinking this was something that it wasn't. It basically was just a glorified taco that I had to put together myself. I was over it. This dish was getting cold now, and it had immediately lost every sense of nostalgia.

The vampire hostess then arrives with my Penn Cove Mejillones and bulls them onto the table. Her mean mugging emo goth face makes me want to stab her right through the heart. She grunts as I say thank you, walks away, and steps back into her coffin of doing nothing. I can't believe she actually lifted a finger in this joint, someone must have promised her a Marlboro Red cigarette for her sixth borrowed smoke break of the evening. It's really hard for me to not like mussels, but this place succeeded in destroying everything else that comes with them. The broth was filled with peppers, onions, and little chunks of nothing as I ate one shellfish after the next. The onions were stringy and chewy. They drowned in the broth as lifeless as the door gal. My broth lacked any type of real desire to be something. At least my soup earlier had spice! This was just a bowl of hot water with a bunch of shit and mussels thrown into it. I ate some and had Captain Sugar Rush take it away.



The Spanish Coca Flatbread and Quest Azul Souffle had arrived immediately after disposing of the crap I was just eating, and I was enthralled with trying yet another tiny plate of food. It seemed like the flatbread was there just to piss me off though. It was one giant bagel bite. Did they microwave this from a frozen box? I could have just put some bread in the toaster oven, cut up a pepper, and then call it something fancy in Spanglish. This was so stupid, I had no idea Mama Celeste had started doing delivery. Luckily we had this blue cheese soufflé to occupy us. It was so rich in flavor. Oh so airy in texture. Finally!! All of these countries have made something together that actually tastes good. The blueberry compote was a perfect compliment to the pungency of the queso. The dish was no bigger than the size of a JFK fifty-cent piece, but man, each minuscule bite was to die for.

I kept wondering when the ordering of drinks would come in to compliment my tapas, but never had a chance. I was never asked, "How is everything?" or "Would you like a nice red to pair with this dish?" To me, a little hospitality goes a long way. Granted, the food was expedited quickly and everyone besides The Blood Countess was pretty nice to me, but I'd like to know that you are concerned with how I'm feeling at your place. At that exact moment our waiter returns and pre busses our table asking me how everything was. This guy was good, too good. He made me feel like everything was okay even if my meal wasn't. We asked about the famed El Diablo dessert, and he gave me immediate jazz hands ranting and raving about it. I told him we were pretty full and couldn't handle such a big dish. He gladly obliged to make us a smaller version of the Food Network featured dessert. God, I'm actually starting to love this guy! He is taking care of me and my needs. I want to go back to his dorm room at Seattle University and do keg stands with him. I want to be his partner in beer pong. Yes, I will watch Community with you. This dessert came and it was insane. The burnt meringue was covered in lumpy chocolate goodness and then dusted with dark cocoa and chili powder. The tequila caramel on the plate was scraped up for every deliberate bite. The race was on! Neither my lady nor I wanted to lose a bite to the other and we plowed through this treat.



We decided to slow down towards the last few bites and embrace this final dish until the evil one walked by again. She was so furiously rolling her eyes and shrugging her shoulders at everyone. I prayed for the sun to come up at once so she could shrivel down into a ball of Hot Topic black denim and purple smoke. I wanted every emotion that she exuded to come back and haunt her like her ugly face does me. I wanted her to feel the true pain of this world. Times are so tough with your Eastside father paying your rent and buying you more black lipstick. I know you can't wait to go drink a tallboy with your boyfriend's shitty emo punk band, but at least acknowledge that I am leaving. I must get out of here! Adios, muchacha!

Mr. Onions Rating (on a 1-10 scale):
Food: 6 Service: 6 Atmosphere: 4 Spanish Professor: 0
Overall: 5.3

Mr. Onions: Toulouse Petit

I am constantly told that I’m the absolute worst person in the world to dine out with. There's always something for me to complain about, whether it be the food, the service, or the person next to me. I'm no critic. I'm just right. After talking with Trent, he felt I should take my cynicism to the blog and start writing restaurant reviews. So, as Mr. Onions, I will be venturing out to various Seattle eating establishments and reporting back. These restaurants better have their shit together because I'm going to make someone cry.



First stop: Toulouse Petit. I was, as always, very much excited to get lunch with my lady there. We usually try to make it before the breakfast happy hour ends, but on this day we decided to sleep in. We arrived around 2:30pm to an almost empty restaurant. I can’t believe there was an actual host needed to seat us. I ask for a booth. A request that causes this poor, miserable host to roll her eyes. This place has like 30 booths. I can't sit in one??! What the fuck?? I know you’re busy, with this huge line of imaginary people waiting at the door for a table. I'm sorry to take you away from reshuffling unused menus, looking out the window twisting your stringy hair, and thinking of where to put your damn "Q" on Words With Friends. But you know what? I want this big comfy golden velvet booth, and I'm taking it. Put your fucking “Q” on Quat, bitch.

We sit, and nothing about the place screams New Orleans meets the French Quarter. There's two overly vibrant televisions playing SportsCenter on loop and Marcy Playground's Sex and Candy blares through the overly trebled speakers. The golden wallpaper sparkles, reflecting the sun, and the light fixtures are reminiscent of Tim Burton's Beetlejuice. The bartender is "freshly squeezing" orange juice as she pours it from the gallon that it came in. Authentic right there. The decor bothers me. Can I get some French doors or maybe a chandelier? Perhaps a fucking fleur-de-lis?!? They tried really hard, but had no fucking idea what the hell they were doing. That, and I'm fucking starving.

Finally! Water! I'm sure glad her whipping boy busser was here to fill it four times because I know she's terribly busy right now with her combined two tables. She needs to be in the back with a wad of scotch tape wrapped around her hand getting all of that cat hair off of her red ragtag v-neck sweater. I can't stand dealing with this "B" team. Can't I just deal with the busboy? At least this guy is here to actually do something for me.

I've never been let down by the food at Toulouse Petit. For our edible selections, we start with their Fried Chicken Gumbo. Holy lord, it's some good shit. Huge succulent slices of spicy sausage, delicate chunks of fried chicken, onions, potatoes, and everything but the kitchen sink thrown into this little bowl of mine. Goddamn this is so good! I can only let my lady take one bite. Definitely not two.

After that quick demolishing of liquid aperitif our server resets our table with a steak knife and a bottle of ketchup. A bottle that is almost empty and covered in gross dried up bits of ketchup. Looks like someone forgot to do their side work today, and I’m the one that has to suffer. There's only one other table in here and you give me a disgusting dirty bottle of ketchup? Did you notice how filthy it was? Don't worry, the 4pm night crew will be here soon, and you can hurry off to your mangy-ass apartment with your boyfriend to watch the new episode of House followed by Dancing With The Stars or whatever goddamn shitty television programming you are Tivoing right now. Shit, just pull a seat up at the bar. Watch TV. I'm sure they won't mind changing the channel for you.



Next, is the meatloaf sandwich. I missed Thomas Gray's amazing meatloaf night earlier in the week. Something was still inside of me yearning for the loaf that is of meat. I take my first bite… and it’s tasty. The red peppers resonated on my palate and embraced all that is cow on bread. The sandwich was lukewarm though, at best. The server said, “Yeah, it's supposed to be served at room temperature.” Room temperature meat loaf?!? What?! Who in the world serves room temperature meatloaf?!?!? This gal is trying to sell me on it because she's lazy and was too busy sexting with her significant other. Isn't that in the food danger zone? I don't know what your mother told you but you should never serve meatloaf cold. That's fucking retarded. Your mother is probably just as mangy as your apartment. I ate half of my cold sandwich and asked for a box. I later reheated it to 165 degrees fahrenheit, the way it should have been in the first place.



Our chocolate torte arrived to much fanfare by myself and my lady. It was sooooo rich and chocolaty, and oh so soft and caramelly. Damn, this was some quality dessert. The little hints of sea salt floated on my tongue like a bee pollinating a flower. It was the perfect combination of PH balance, and my mouth was applauding me. As we were finishing up, our server returned and put our check on the table. She didn't bother cleaning off the dirty plates, sauce filled ramekins, and crumbled up napkins. Can you actually be this shitty of a waitress?! You’re pushing me out of the door and you don't even bother to pre bus my table?! It really pisses me off when I get a check at a dirty table. Don't worry, I’ll pay right away and get out of here so you and little miss hostess can tag photos of each other on mobile Facebook. I get it. You two went to a Sounders game with your stupid Xbox-green scarves, drank a few pale ales, and you must remind every one of your friends how consistently lame you are.

Thanks, Toulouse. You are delicious, but I'll remember to come back when your all-stars are working.

Mr. Onions Rating (on a 1-10 scale):
Food: 8 Service: 3 Atmosphere: 4
Overall Experience: 5