Genuine concern compels me to write this, my maiden Yelp review. Sisters aims to be "laid back." I know this, in part, because the host-waiter used this term to describe the restaurant's approach to each unfortunate entrant. "We're laid back," he would say. "Go ahead and take any seat you like." An easygoing air can be A-Okay, when carefully calibrated and coupled with attentiveness. The Sisters version of "laid back," however, is unrefined ("laid back" is rooted in the German "lasich," which translates to languid or idle). Sisters is "laid back" like hell is hot.
An unchaperoned seat search no doubt relieves some staff stress. It serves no such function for diners. This is particularly true when the cluttered-but-unpopulated tables invoke a restaurant at the Colony of Roanoke, circa 1600. We eventually came upon a table that was evacuated, save for a check and two champagne glasses. Over the next half-hour, we got to know that check and those glasses quite well. We did not, however, get to know our servers at all. A quarter-hour later, I turned to two nearby diners: Were we, in fact, meant to order at the bar? They said no and, with a knowing laugh and ominously stir-crazy eyes, warned that we'd likely be waiting for a long while. Skilled prognosticators, these women proved to be.
Opting for proactivity over purgatory, I ventured to the pretty bar for drinks. A comely tender was deeply entangled in conversation with a young man. The fellow was charming - he leaned in when he spoke and was quick to flash a beguiling smile. Because these two were so enjoying their exchange, they were understandably disappointed when, five minutes later, the thirsty demands of the growing throng knocked them out of their reverie. A beer list - thoughtfully curated but bereft of the draft options - was handed over begrudgingly. Upon my return to the table, I complimented my dining companion on his beard, which was now beginning to fill in quite nicely. A server had yet to appear.
I now note that the temperature inside the restaurant was 90+ degrees. One diner was battling a severe cold, chills and all. A pricey down comforter had provided scant relief the night before but, in this tropical atmosphere, her weary body finally felt at peace. Those at risk for PTSD flashbacks prompted by jungle-like climes should avoid Sisters. But, for the young, sick, and brave, things will be cozy-fun as winter comes: upon entry, bundled bodies will emit dramatic bursts of steam, as if one were in a mid-period Michael Jackson video.
Eventually, the first of three befuddled servers arrived. This young Godot dropped off four passport-sized menus. Like a Boston Terrier's nose, the menu's cuteness violently trumped its functionality. There must be someone, somewhere, able to read such tiny print without strain. I suspect that somewhere exists within the Marvel universe.
The tropical Sister's air is thick with diner desperation and peppered with flashes of camaraderie stemming from shared hostile circumstances. Whenever any diner actually received food, others would glance over with jealousy and admiration: "How did you pull THAT off, old chap?" The Sisters service social experiment reminds us that, in the complete absence of structure and the playing of traditional service roles, unexpected bonds may be formed.
We ordered fried artichokes, a scotch egg, duck cassoulet, and a burger. The fried artichokes were fried artichokes. The lonely Scotch egg was botched. Just Google "Scotch egg," Sisters: the thing must have a layer of sausage. The cassoulet's duck was tasty but its white bean mix was bland - and here's why: it clearly lacked the pork skin integral to any proper cassoulet. The burger was cold and defiantly flavorless.
The kitchen is tiny and an air of survival - rather than pride or craft - permeates its small confines (the cooks might as well have been stuffing envelopes). All night, a certain waiter took semi-regular breaks from texting to physically and verbally snap at the cooks to hurry up. Granted, this nasty man might have been suffering from heat stroke. He continually shed layers until he donned a T-shirt and pants hung perilously low, showcasing a swatch of grey-purple boxers. Also, remember the young buck who tempted the bartender away from the drudgeries of her workaday life? Well, the nasty man was similarly enthralled by his charms, and the two would engage in 10-minute Socratic dialogues, oblivious to the low whistle of muscle mass degeneration, as we diners entered the early stages of autophagy.
Sisters is well-staffed, but not staffed well: a tenuous relationship exists between employment and the actual act of serving. (I see other Yelpers agree.) Finally, Sisters' website states that it is open for breakfast. That is false. I attempted to dine there on two mornings, and it was closed each time. The service on those two days was roughly comparable to that exhibited on the night in question. read more