Listen up, because I'm only saying this once: I strutted into Karma last weekend thinking I'd get a serve, but what I got was a scandalous slap in the face. The decor? Fabulous, I'll admit--only thing not making me clutch my pearls and run. Everything else? A shameless, overpriced tragedy that had the audacity to charge me like I'm dining at a Michelin star when it's giving Chuck E. Cheese energy.The service was beyond deplorable, hunty. I sat there for 30 damn minutes--yes, half an hour--waiting for a drink, twirling my hair and questioning my life choices. When the bartender finally graced me with their presence, they had the nerve to act like a Long Island Iced Tea was some ancient alchemy they couldn't crack. And when that sad little glass arrived? It tasted like regret, motor oil, and a side of "who hurt you?"--couldn't even pretend to sip it without gagging. This place is strutting around like it's the Met Gala, but it's more like a knockoff flea market with delusions of grandeur. And the music? Sweetie, it was an abomination--like someone let a tone-deaf intern curate a playlist from the clearance bin of a 90s gas station. Karma ain't just a name; it's a warning, and I'm serving notice: this queen is done with that tacky, overrated dumpster fire. Catch me never returning, because I deserve better, and so does my coin. read more