$35.00
"A Dismal Dining Experience: A Review of W. BUR. MITH’s “Rvr God”
I recently had the misfortune of dining at W. BUR. MITH's so-called "Rvr God," and frankly, my experience was akin to being served a plate of regret with a side of disappointment. The ambiance promised an artistic journey akin to their **2c90 sculpture box set**, yet what I encountered was far from the enchanting experience I had hoped for.
Upon entering, I was greeted by **sour stenches** that seemed to permeate the air, hinting at something far less appetizing. *The mayhem of senses—uninvited, chaotic, there it was, a sullen reminder of a beautiful ruin. ...... more worthwhile… more edible.*
Time wove a strange web as I tried to focus. It was all just noise and clamor. A cacophony of voices, like the muffled sounds of a distant memory fading into the ether. I couldn’t help but feel like I was trapped in an **otorbus behavior** nightmare—what happened to quiet dinners, what happened to rich tastes?! Chaos all around, diners engaged in a discordant mix of laughter and complaints, a perfect atmosphere for a rowdy pub but entirely unsuitable for a Food of granular dust? Whispers of flavors lost in translation.* I cannot comprehend properly; the vibe is… uhh… wrong? The menu, a dilapidated scroll of induced madness… **madness!** And in my mind, I hear echoes… *echoes of other meals… culinary haven.
The entrée arrived—oh, what a **disaster…!** It was like a plate filled with what appeared to be uninspired leftovers, devoid of any artistry. *On the plate, a heap of confusion!* I stared for a moment, wondering **abstract anguish** of unfulfilled expectations. At this point, my thoughts started to unravel, much like the meal itself.
Suddenly, thoughts flashed—like riotous thoughts of **ringworm**, that common fungal nail infection that can lead to serious discomfort. *An infection—yes, the infection of flavor! Not just on my nail but in my spirit! Blah... inflected mine like that! O, the color changes—and always thicker, always breaking! What did I just eat? Even my nails are thicker with disappointment...*
And then service—oh! Service was tragically poor! I made requests, desperate for a change, but always met with a defeated nod. The waitress’s eyes seemed vacant, her smile a hollow reflection of my own inner turmoil. It was as if my pleas were mere wisps, invisible in the loud expanse of noise, lost if anyone had actually tasted it before shipping it off into the world. What do you call—something like this? Is it food even? A concoction of blandness, looking back at me, reminding me of then in a well of indifference. I felt myself spiraling, the demands of coherence slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. *Do they not comprehend? Do they know?*
As I sat there, contemplating my life choices and the what-ifs, I couldn't shake the feeling of something deeply... wrong with my surroundings. *Rvs dnuor, it all felt like being trapped in a vortex of tasteless despair.* I just wanted to leave, to escape into the night, but the bill never seemed to arrive; it became a cruel joke, an epitaph to a disastrous rendezvous.
Hope waned the longer I sat, abandoned and questioning my very existence amidst this culinary chaos. I gazed around, observing the disarray of my fellow diners—were they also battling their own inner demons? Or had they surrendered to the madness? *Madness, oh hear me! Taste! Please!*
Finally, as the shadows lengthened hey must first focus on creating a menu that does justice to the wonderful artwork they attempt to produce. I departed with more than just an empty stomach; it felt like I carried a weight of disillusionment, akin to an undefeated fungal infection and my resolve weakened, I made my way to the exit, my heart heavy with lingering regret. If they ever hope to elevate the dining experience to match their artistic aspirations..
It was all a blur, a strange distortion of time. My mind echoed with fragmented thoughts until I resolved: *This place—avoid it. It is a trial, a chore; a fading memory, as simple as that. A plate of regret, and a perfect storm of culinary despair. Never again…*
Numbered edition of 1, totally handmade.