Il Buco, why do you hate me so?
The service during our Friday night dinner was putrid at best, bordering on offensive at its worst. The food was good, at some points fine, at some points very good. It wasn't great and it's far from it. Nonetheless all of this could have been forgiven and our evening saved if not for how we were treated by this establishment's staff.
I held on strong but in the end it took a little over an hour for them to break me. The rancid service had left me with no choice but to lift my hands, look to the sky and ask "why me?". Thank you for the table cornered by the door (we all loved the nice 20 degree breezes we were treated to every time someone opened the door) tucked right next to the crowded bar (no lady my head is not where you are meant to place your jacket and bag). Why does such a table even exist? Riddle me that. Thank you for bringing our (second) bottle of wine to our table without any glasses (should we just sip and pass?). And lastly, as we had finally almost made our escape, thank you for asking not once, not twice, but three times if we were interested in dessert (Hint: NO!) before finally presenting us with our check, which I'll add had to be hand delivered to the hostess 45 minutes later after our server went missing (notify proper authorities if found).
Il Buco, why do you hate me so?
I'm not mad at you Il Buco. I'm just disappointed. I wanted to love you. With just a little bit of good service and elbow grease you probably could have even tricked me into thinking your food was unique or better than any of the countless other trendy pasta hotspots our great city has to offer. I wanted to believe. You had me, you really did.
I won't be recommending you to a friend. I won't be returning in this lifetime or the next. Another member of our party wrote a more eloquently worded email to management but judging from our experience, I assume she'll need to send it at least two more times before you get the message.