Flaming Margarita’s aside, every time I’ve stepped foot in this restaurant on Sunset Blvd. in West Hollywood something has gone wrong. From multiple hour waits in the bar with plenty of empty tables available, mixed up entrees and unfriendly staff I’m taking the hint and going elsewhere.
The last time I went to El Compadre it happened to be Monday, so we got a table right away. Our waiter stopped by for a moment to say hello and took our drink order. He looked like a slick Fonzie from the seventies complete with unbuttoned shirt.
Drinks arrived and we sipped our flaming margaritas and munched on chips and salsa for 10 minutes or so before the Fonzie is back to take our order. In the meantime I noticed two guys have been seated at the table in front of us. I watch them get drinks and make their order before Fonzie comes back to check on us. I’m getting amused, because I’ve yet to have a positive experience here. Eventually we give our order and spend the next 40 minutes in conversation. In the meantime I watch the guys at the table in front of us get their food, start eating, get a bootie call half-way through their meal, quickly pay the bill and leave – before we can get a second drink. Then a nice Goth couple is seated at the bootie call table and they’ve got drinks before I can put a fork into my Mole Enchiladas!
Food finally arrives and I realize my enchiladas are mediocre. And I try to think of a reason to continue eating before throwing down the fork. Plates were cleared in a jiffy, but the check was nowhere in site.
The boyfriend and I then spent the next 30 minutes discussing the 4th, 5th and 6th dimensions before moving onto the moral implications of leaving the restaurant without paying. I wanted to leave that moment, I was willing to pay; but there was no check. How can you pay when your waiter forgets about you? I was ready to walk out and was building my case on why it was not morally wrong in this situation, when finally the check showed up. I was a little disappointed, but we paid the bill and were out of there.
Sorry El Compadre. I won’t be coming back, I can make flaming margaritas in my kitchen.
photo by shinyrobot via flickr