Review: Medjool!  »

Medjool is located in the fake Mission District. It’s where people from the Marina* come when they want to slum it in the scary, scary Mission. It’s pretentious and ridiculous (look at all those a-holes out front in the picture. What a bunch of a-holes) but they have a fair amount of vegan items on the menu—which is advertised as “more than a menu. It’s a cultural event.” BLOW ME, MEDJOOL—so I was game to try it. I went two times and had decent experiences with the hummus and couscous, nothing extraordinary, but my third time visiting, HOLY SHIT. Beyond the terrible service, terrible food, and terrible music there was the FUCKING TERRIBLE SERVICE. Our waiter was so snooty, so slow and so thick in the head, it was truly mind-boggling. He wasn’t exactly mean, more operating in a fashion that defied all logic. It was like in his universe, two plus two equals cookie. Do you know what I’m saying? It’s as if he was thoroughly confused that he was our waiter and not some dude who showed up at Medjool to PARTY!!! He never said hello, never told us the specials and when we finally flagged him down to order he asked, “What you want?” With this kind of service, WHO NEEDS ENEMIES?!

I wasn’t all that surprised that three out of four dishes were fucked up with nary an apology or speedy correction and the biggest of all horrors, he brought me a FUCKING WHOLE CHICKEN. I was like, oh bitches no. I am VEGAN. He was like, “Oops. My bad.” I remained cool. He took away the carcass. Five minutes later a runner comes with ANOTHER WHOLE CHICKEN. I ask my friends which one of them is fucking with me. Seriously, is this a joke? I call the waiter back over and explain problem with receiving wrong order twice and he offers no apology or explanation and returns with my correct order a full 20 minutes later. Everyone else is done eating. I am forced to eat alone and feel extra fat. Fucking horrendous. I will never return and encourage all other vegans and vegan sympathizers to do the same. Luckily, nobody is beating down my door to take me to Medjool. Nobody is beating down my door to take me anywhere. Tear.

Actually, I take it back. The waiter was not only an alien from planet Insane Incompetency but also pretty mean. I might even call him a douche. Actually, to call him a douche would be an insult to douches because they’ve at least been inside a woman. Oh, snap!

*For those of you unfamiliar with SF geographical stereotypes, I’m sorry. They’re pretty great. Living in the Marina basically means that, if you’re a woman, you’ll finish college, work for a couple of years, find some jr. banker d-bag to marry, quit working to plan your wedding and then get pregnant, never work again, raise ungrateful brats while your husband is off cheating with a dude named Chereyl. Also, you bronze your cleavage.

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