From its sign and its dark interior, I had the impression Allen’s
was a comfortable hole-in-the-wall, with weathered old men sitting in its corners, hacking up their nicotine-stained lungs.
My kind of place. Plus, the idea of sitting on Allen’s patio, which consistently gets rave reviews from city drinkers and foodies, definitely got my patio mojo working.
But minutes into arriving on this warm after-work night, I stood at the host’s station, not feeling like I was waiting for a patio table, but rather an exclusive yacht club. And not even in that bling-bling Lonely Islands’ “I’m on a Motherf*’n Boat!” sort of way. More in that “I have white hair, wear denim shirts with khaki pants, tell-my-lowly-secretary-to-transcribe-my-notes” way.
Needless to say, I felt a bit out of place.
When finally seated, despite the flurry of servers running this way and that, no one acknowledged me for five minutes. Even then, it was only to bring me a water, with no further comment. Not even a menu to keep me occupied as I sat waiting for my friend for 15 minutes. Just me, staring into the sea of denim and khaki.
When my guest arrived, it took another few minutes to actually get some menus, to get her a water, and to have our order taken. On top of this, there was an excruciatingly long 45-minute wait for our food, aggravated even more by the fact that later-arriving tables received their orders well before us.
The dry, over-cooked burger and cold, greasy sweet potato fries didn’t help matters.
And even when we wanted to leave, it was impossible to grab any eye contact for our bill. Seven minutes. (And yes, we counted.)
My dining partner was convinced they were judging us on our propensity to tip. Whether that was the case or not, the service was a definite turn-off.
Best patio in Toronto? Physically speaking, it’s not bad. But I can think of many more places with a better attitude (Cadillac Lounge, for instance) that may not be as manicured, but feel infinitely more comfortable and never forget that I’m a person with feelings, too.
