So. Y’all know that I don’t often post very negative reviews on my blog, oh except for the profoundly bad service here, but hey, they’ve closed down anyway so ahem, karma. It’s not that I’m not being objective, I just normally don’t post negative things because quite plain and simply, it isn’t as much fun.
I would much rather verbally regurgitate (excuse the pun) experiences that have made me happy so that I can share a bit of that joy with everyone, and conjure up tastes that brought me to near orgasmic bliss, so that I can re-live the exquisiteness all over again. Wouldn’t you?
But then this happened. And now this post will be forever known as The One Where Catty Opened A Can Of Whoop-Ass.
Simply put? Modern Pantry: FAIL.
I’m going to try and keep this post as short as I can and maybe, just maybe, censor the emotional outbursts that may occur from time to time because honestly, Modern Pantry shat me that badly. Lord knows, I have already spewed much hate across Twitterverse while waiting for my meal.
The scene: there were 14 of us, and after a physically draining session of ice skating at Somerset House (ok, the physically draining was just for me, the noob, who has never once donned a pair of skates – roller or ice) we were booked in for a nice relaxing Sunday roast lunch at the aforementioned Modern Pantry.
Really, we should have known there was something wrong when upon arrival, we were told that they were all out of roast beef. Que? A restaurant which boasts Sunday lunch, out of roast beef?? We considered hauling butt somewhere else but with a group of 14, that would have been a mammoth task on its own, and granted that everyone seemed happy to order pork instead (and we did check if they had enough pork to serve 14), we decided to stay.
Fatal Error.
Anyway, most of us decided on the two-course lunch and ordered our starters. The starters took a stupidly long time, like what, 45 minutes? When they finally arrived, we chowed down our food without much recourse to judgement on taste and the after-thoughts were all fairly positive, but I have a feeling that this was due to the appeasing of the hungry beasts which were wielding acid laden claws in our bellies.
Starters done, we began to wait again.
“Time… goes by…. so slowly…..” ~ the waiting was beginning to feel like the torture of listening to Unchained Melody.
And we waited.
And waited some more.
And ordered some wine, bloody Mary’s and lychee bellini’s.
And asked the waiter where our food was.
At some point, the sun set and it was pitch black outside.
I was wiedling my fork like a weapon, the hunger-crazed woman that I am.
Finally, over one and a half hours later, the plates of pork came out.
Halle-fucking-lujah.
Strangely, no one really dove right in. We all observed our plates, turned it this angle and that, trying to determine if there really was only one teeny tiny piece of pork on every single plate.
It seemed that that was it, one small slice per person. Had they rationed their remaining pork because there were 14 of us? Because honestly, the serving that came out was heavy on vegetables (with acres of silverbeet) but the pork was true Michelin star sized, and this my friends, was not a Michelin star restaurant.
Goddamn, I wouldn’t even give it a fallen star.
Well, whatever, we were hungry. So everyone chowed down on the pork and one thing became blatantly obvious. This was no slow-cooked pork. The meat was not tender, it was not soft, it did not fall apart on touch. I mean, am I asking too much? If you cooked a leg of pork over 2-3 hours, the meat frucking falls of the frucking bone, doesn’t it?!
We had an inkling then that when we’d ordered, the kitchen had fast-cooked a small leg of pork and voila, this was what we were served.
Granted that tastes were spot on ~ the veg were great and the sauce was actually very tasty ~ we still felt like they’d completely ripped us off. And upon offer of a dessert menu, I think I said (to no one in particular) “fucked if I’m gonna spend any more money here…”
But guys, it ain’t over til the fat lady sings.
We thought asking for our bill would be the end of all pain. But good golly, lookie here, they charged us all for the two-course lunch when actually, some of us only had one. Agony.
Eventually when the bill was sorted and service not paid, we stepped out of Modern Pantry a good two and a half hours after arriving, slightly fuller but none the happier.
So, whoop-ass. Don’t go to Modern Pantry.
The Modern Pantry
48 St John’s Square
London, EC1V 4JJ
0207 553 9210
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