Screw California II

Or the wait-staff, at a minimum.

Let's be clear that the vast majority of those involved were more than pleasant and helpful. The hotel staff put up with us politely (although the expression on the face of the bar supervisor on the night we went out for unlimited margaritas in Santa Monica, followed by karaoke night back at the hotel made me want to slide up next to her and inquire, quietly, whether she'd like her face to freeze like that), and in a few instances (when my non-smoking hotel room was clearly in violation of the rules, for example) were stellar.

The night we went to Elevate for drinks before eating at Takami Sushi, I handed the bartender $15 for a $12 cocktail and he made no attempt to provide change. Ahem. I was definitely planning to tip, but I like to choose the amount, thank you very much. The good news is that the dinner that night was excellent (various sashimi and sushi dishes), and the restaurant staff dealt well with the mostly tipsy party of 16 (it was only a semi-voluntary party of 16, let's be clear).

But I digress - this was supposed to be the post about Osteria Mozza.

Josh Lyman and I took a (relatively) long cab ride from downtown to the restaurant. (Oh, and I wore my new Ted Baker top with brown tights & boots.) We were early, so waited at the bar with a cocktail and tried not to be over-engaged in conversation with the gentleman at the bar who was clearly interested in keeping us around. We were seated at the end of a banquette row - amazing how much more room there is in non-NYC restaurants, I wasn't even close to sitting on the annoying women next to us. The waiter, Roman in appearance and hoity-toity in attidude, reviewed the menu with us thoroughly, and we chose the following: Grilled Octopus with potatoes, celery & lemon, Burricotti with braised artichokes, pine nuts, currants & mint pesto, Linguine with clams, pancetta & spicy Fresno chiles, and Guinea Hen Crostone with liver pancetta sauce.

The sommelier, who could have been 12 and was clearly wearing a well tailored Ted Baker suit, ignored Josh's Pietmontese heritage and recommended ... something else (am really going to have to start making tableside notes on the wines), white at any rate, that was fantastic. There was a duck dish on the menu that was served with a side of brussels sprouts (my other regular must have is octopus, as you may have noticed), and Josh asked if we could have the sprouts sans duck. The Roman checked with the kitchen and they agreed to side them for us.

This is where things got ugly.

The brussels sprouts were well cooked, al dente, if you will, but over-vinegared. I tried them several times, but really couldn't eat them. Let's be clear that the rest of the food was delicious. I'd had a recent vinegar-y experience at Smith's (so backlogged I've been there again in the intervening weeks, but soon to be blogged) that suggested serious restauranteurs and their staff sometimes appreciate honest feedback. So when the Roman asked how the food was, I told him that I thought the sprouts were overly piquant. He looked a little surprised (perhaps people in LA fake it with their food?), and said he'd go and check with the kitchen. He came back shortly and proceeded to inform us that the fault was ours.

You heard me. If we'd ordered them as paired by the restaurant, instead of as a side, he said, the sweetness of the duck would have ... counter balanced or mitigated or somehow overcome the vinegar, and everything would have been just fine. Followed with a slight sneer. I was appalled, as was Josh. Given that he'd ostensibly checked with the kitchen in the first place, this is surely a point that could have been made in advance. And he left them on the bill, after we'd complained and clearly not finished eating them. So we skipped dessert and docked his tip. Not a lot, but enough to be noticeable.

And then proceeded to meet a friend of Josh's at a bar called Lola's to wash the taste from our mouths with dirty martinis. Mmmmm.