by oriana c. on The place gets packed fairly fast and if it wasn't for the table we had, I'd have left. Our waitress was there in the beginning but didn't see much of her after...oh well. I wasn't too sure about the crowd... 2 girls (different time) fell over at our table and knocked drinks over and got me wet...Both times! Way to stay classy, Ladies! It just goes to show that even though you have a table here, it doesn't mean you will be able to avoid stupid people because this place is that small. Later on, a girl asked if anyone is sitting next to me and if she could sit there? (uh no... table service and you are not with us)...I give this place a 3 star because they did play some decent music.
by Theodore L. on Richard Blais' spectacular flame-out in the Top Chef finale was all the more shocking due to his sheer mastery leading up to that final challenge. The table had been set, so to speak, for Blais to wow the judges one last time with his canny blend of sophistication and whimsy. Instead, Richard screwed the pooch - or, at least, under-seasoned it - holding the door open for Stephanie, a competent chef with rosy cheeks who always reminded me of Holly Hobbie (ask your older sister). Upon hearing that Blais has set out to turn the world of burgers on its meaty ear, I couldn't wait to gorge upon the full breadth of his fevered imagination (and ego). Yet, like Top Chef judges Padma and the ultra-yummy Tom Colicchio at season's end, Richard left me despondent and confused. Et tu, Faux Hawk? Sitting incongruously on a ugly, congested stretch of Howell Mill Road, Flip's boxy, modern styling would suit Los Angeles, as would its patrons. While waiting for a table on a bustling Tuesday night, I couldn't believe the amount of stylish waifs pigging out (I guess Vice magazine has decreed lamb burgers IN and heroin OUT.) White walls, discreet booths, flat screen televisions - the decor is what I imagine Shaquille O'Neal's basement to look like, only with way more white people. After a forty minute wait, we were shown our seats. Our waitress, fair-skinned and winsome, took our order. This is where everything fell apart. For my main dish I settled upon the first offering on the menu, the Flip burger. I specified the following in no uncertain terms: 1. NO ONIONS. I have an onion allergy. Eating them makes me break out in a sweat and unleashes a high put-upon voice heard for miles. 2. NO MAYONNAISE. I like eggs. I like vinegar. And I like oil. Mixing the three, however, triggers my gag reflex quicker than my first boyfriend ever could. Shared appetizers of Tempura Asparagus and Okra made for a delectable, heart-clogging start. Crispy with the right amount of salt, the tempura complemented the encased, fresh vegetables superbly. And the dipping sauces were pure catnip. So far, so awesome. It wouldn't last. In little time, I was presented with the first of what I will now call my Sadness Burger. Sadness Burger 1 looked beautiful, a stout marvel towering upon its little plate, more a work of art than something to pass through the body. But as I raised burger to mouth, white goo oozed upon my hands (insert tasteless joke here). Mayonnaise. Mayonnaise I did not want. Mayonnaise that's not even listed on the menu. Okay, people err. So the waitress took the it back, and within twenty seconds I was presented with Sadness Burger 2. I eyed it suspiciously, and immediately noted that rather than give me a fresh, correct burger, they merely scraped the condiment off. Obnoxious, cheap, but nothing worth bellyaching about. I took a HUGE bite, and instantly my alarm systems went haywire. ONIONS. IN. MY. MOUTH. I opened the bun, and there they were, a heap of sleeping eels. Angered, I leered into the kitchen looking for Mr. Top Chef, but he was nowhere to be found. Populating the kitchen instead were the kind of dour, punk-rock, kitchen journeymen you'd expect to be fixing nachos at The Highlander, a pack of tattooed Judases. The manager came over and I explained the situation. With apologies, he took the offending plate away. A minute later I was presented with Sadness Burger 3. I held it up, said a little prayer, and chomped. Something was off. Really off. While I couldn't detect the texture of onions, the flavor was still prevalent. And then it dawned: yet again, they scraped the offending ingredient off, and sent it back. As if I couldn't have done the same thing. Here's a news flash: THAT DON'T WORK WITH ONIONS. Like Princess Diana and herpes, onions leave an ever-lasting mark. I chose not to risk Sadness Burger 4 (The Quickening), and instead polished off a pound of bacon at home, a cure-all for disappointment. Oh Richard Blais...I root for you and yet hipster cooks in your name hath spurned me. I like believing that had you been there, this wouldn't have happened. So next time, stop sharpening your hair and be the top chef I know you can be.
by Brendon Bytheway on The bartenders and staff are just the right kind of friendly/snarky balance. The drinks will knock you off your feet. The stage is actually high enough to see whatever act is performing. My favorite DJ's and club nights happen there (how can you miss out on a club night called MEAT where they actually BBQ outside?) The multiple levels and different dance floors keep you entertained. The decor is interesting all the way down to the bathrooms. Going to DNA feels like going home.
