Let me preface this by saying that I have never written a review for anything, at all, ever, and I have created this account to tell you my tale. I hope you will enjoy it in a way that I wish I had enjoyed my meal.
This was the worst dining experience I've ever had. That includes the time I went to Applebee's when I was 8 and drank their chocolate milk before throwing it up all over myself at the table.
Myself, my boyfriend, and my friend arrived at Pono at about 7 PM today; A sunny, unassuming Tuesday. After waiting an incredible half hour to order from seemingly the only working bartender in the establishment, my boyfriend gets fish tacos, friend gets a Corona, and I get a lemonade and order* their beef skewers.
*You will notice that I said that I "ordered" the beef skewers. This is important to the story.
My party of three sits down with the number "18" for our table and within twenty minutes my boyfriend receives his fish tacos, which pleases him, but sadly gave us a very unrealistic expectation of ever receiving my food within this century.
An hour goes by, and no food arrives for me. My boyfriend goes back to the bartender and inquires about my meal. We're told there might have been a number "18" out there, though he's very sure it as a number "11", but either way he'll punch it in now. Shouldn't take too long!
"OK," I foolishly think. "I get that. It is periodically busy and there is just the one bartender." So I wait. And wait.
Another half hour goes by and we still have the plastic sign on the table numbered "7", letting me know what hour we showed up at in case I forget as time passes. It's around this time that a new gentlemen comes to the table with our old number "18" sign, and asks us if we're waiting for food.
I answer in the affirmative, and he says there has been a mix up and he will go put the order in now. I'm unsure of how this can be as there are surely at least two orders in for the same dish now. As he leaves, he places the original number "18" on our table as well. We are now starting a collection of depressing plastic numerals and are once again assured that the order has been put in.
Another half an hour goes by and it is now 9 PM when I am approached by the nice busser who smiled at me when I first entered Pono two hours prior. I was younger and full of hope, then. I don't like to think about that time.
"Excuse me," he says as he looks over my plastic numbered trophies to failure. "Are you waiting for food?"
It is at this moment that the light has gone from my eyes. Any thoughts of having a relaxing evening with loved ones is scattered to the wind. My only real friends are the plastic numbered signs who have been with me since the beginning and who will be with me until the end. We're bonded by tragedy, now.
I am lucky enough to have a saint of a partner who offered to cash me out so that we could leave. This way I would not have to approach the bartender, as surely seeing my face would fill him with indescribable shame. However, it is another long stretch of time before the bartender chooses to acknowledge his existence. When he does, he has an answer for the inexorable wait for my meal, "Sorry, man. The kitchen is slammed."
Ah, yes, the kitchen must be slammed with the same three orders of beef skewers we requested over the span of two hours. I wonder how anyone else in the establishment ate anything at all. I must have been dining with skeletons.
I write this to you after rushing through a fast food drive through for a mediocre burger and fries in an attempt to fill my stomach with anything other than the sour taste of disappointment, which I have yet to snuff out.
The fish tacos were also too salty, which I really should have taken as foreshadowing as I am also of that same disposition. read more