His name is Paul Harris, he’s never embarrassed
By the things that his family do
But he has, on occasion, enjoyed the attention
Of a birthday party or two
When it comes to imbibing, he’s always abiding
And tips his glass to his pals
He’ll shake a man’s hand, say “here’s to ya, man”
And be quick with a kiss for the girls
Happy Birthday, Señor …
Sorry, I just had to post this again – “push”? … “automatic”? I mean, come ON …
As far as I can tell, the ‘new look’ of Gaetano’s extends no further than the sign outside. The service is still woefully inadequate (we waited for an hour for the starters to arrive), and the food tastes as though it’s just been lifted out of a low-cost catering pack. Dried parmesan – in an Italian restaurant? For shame!
House wine is supposed to be affordable, but reasonably good. It’s not supposed to be overly delightful, but be sufficiently well-rounded to go with anything. It’s not, I repeat NOT, supposed to strip the enamel off one’s teeth.
Our shameful meal consisted of (amongst other things) gristley meatballs, undercooked pizza, dried basil on my caprese, tinned tomatoes passing as a “rich tomato sauce”. Not a thing was fresh.
Despite repeated complaints about timing, and a request (ignored) early on for bread and/or olives to fill the aching void of our bellies, we waited another 30 minutes after a “dear god, no” to the desert menu, before we’d had enough and screamed for the bill. No coffee, no digestif, no service, no tip.
All in all, it was an experience I would have gladly exchanged for a root canal.
The website proudly announces “the best Italian food outside of Italy”. If I worked for the Italian tourist board, I’d firebomb them.
Need I say “avoid”?
All Pinky, No Brain 