I had high hopes for The National. The space is genuinely lovely -- thoughtfully designed and atmospheric in the way that makes you settle in and expect something special. Unfortunately, that's where the good news ends.
And about that space -- a small but important caveat. While the interior designer clearly has an eye for aesthetics, they appear to have reserved a special kind of determination for the chairs. One can only imagine the lengths gone to in sourcing them -- as though someone scoured the entire earth with the singular mission of finding the most uninviting, uncomfortable seats ever assembled beneath a dining table. Plan accordingly, because you will not be lingering. Cramps will see to that. Frankly, you'd be better off in economy class on the airline formerly known as Spirit. At least there you know what you signed up for.
Then there's the service. Our first waitress seemed to have arrived at work that evening as surprised as the rest of us that she was, in fact, employed by a restaurant. When asked a basic question about how a dish on the menu was prepared, she had no answer -- not a partial answer, not an "I'll find out," just the kind of blank look that makes you wonder if she'd read the menu herself. Mercifully, a second waiter stepped in, and while the competence upgrade was appreciated, he overcorrected in spectacular fashion. Checking in at the table every few minutes and pitching each dish with the desperate enthusiasm of a man selling cut-rate suits to a penguin, he replaced one problem with another. Attentive service and overbearing service are not the same thing.
Then there's the menu itself -- a slim five entrees, which would be forgivable if those five were exceptional. They were not, and the kitchen had already run out of one by the time we ordered, narrowing the field further. The focaccia, offered as a promising start, tasted as though it had been made with the bare minimum of effort or care. The chicken entrée was rubbery and nearly devoid of seasoning -- an impressive feat given the unnecessarily long list of ingredients accompanying it on the menu. Somewhere beneath a well-managed, over-fussed skin was a piece of chicken that had simply given up. The dish would have benefited enormously from the philosophy that simplicity, done well, is always enough. It was not done well.
Substitutions were flatly refused, which, paired with a limited menu and an already depleted selection, left little room to work with.
The National has ambition behind it, and a beautiful room to show for it -- chairs notwithstanding. But ambition without execution is just decoration. Until the kitchen finds its footing, the front of house finds its balance, and someone reconsiders the seating, I won't be returning. read more