When life's not funny, it's no fun for me. That's not to say I don't take things seriously, I do, but I realize in the long wash the worst disasters become the best stories.
I try to be nice. I really do. I've learned that if you let negativity have a seam into your world it can spread like a plague.
So I deliberated writing this review, repugnant as it makes me feel. I just thought "knowledge is power".
Maybe, just maybe, it was a off night. I should have known when I walked up without a reservation and was seated immediately. Generally I'd think that was good luck?
I think, if you are Spanish, and by this I mean a Madrileño, you don't come here, because you know where to find better quality at a better (lower) price.
It's a sad thing when you start to trade on your reputation, and the quality goes to the s**t house, but that (it seems to me) is what has happened here.
The famous suckling Pig is a disaster. The skin like lacquer, the shiny coating the color of mahogany, with a taste much the same (imagine eating dampened sawdust). The boney interior flavorless, and dry, a thin lawyer of consommé added. Mass production (to meet demand that must be falling short) leads me to believe that quality control is lacking.
The chicken (I told them not to order!) rubbery and flavorless (in a country where delicious spices are so aptly available!). We all agreed Costco/Sam's is better.
The sangria, a local table wine, heavy on fruit and ice, lacking even the cheap/tasty bottom barrel grape squeezin (oft used for port) that could have reduced the somber moments, and placated my guest.
The salad was fine. Vegetables were pickled, and probably from a jar, the egg with that gray corona around the yoke (which gives away its age), olives were perfectly pitted (the worst kind) and from a #10 can, but it was fine.
I sent my first order of suckling pig back, only to have it replaced by a slightly happier version of the same. This led me to believe that the chef was into paper mache and any further attempts would be futile. Believe it or not, I didn't wanna embarrass my guest.
This place is a tourist trap, and I the fly stuck in a sickly, sour honey. I blame Hemingway.
Two weeks after dining at Botin and I still can't see how it could have been any worse.
I guess the place could'ah caught fire and burned to the ground with us in it. So I'm lucky.
I feel lucky.
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