Fettuccini ($16)
Foundry on Elm is more like a terrible relationship than it lets on. Its stunning façade draws you in, almost helpless; the wide open windows let out a subtle perfume; a well-stacked bar sits just out of view. You bite, and immediately lust after the menu. Perhaps this one is not mere window dressing.
French-inspired charcuterie ($14) speaks to one’s refined tastes (how could she not see?), while the poutine ($9) is a playfully mature take on a well-loved classic. Nothing disappoints as there is substance in this place, gravity. Each dish is to be cherished on its own. You become almost bloated with the pleasantries set before you, stopping only because you know that your entrée is yet to come. Why even order the entrée? Why not simply come again for the ambiance and the familiar-yet-novel take on familiar mixed drinks (“Old Granddad’s Cherry” – $9.25)?
Poutine ($9)
Refreshed by another drink and by a momentary digestive time-out, apprehension turns to excitement as you see the waitress on her way! This is it. This is your dish. The rest of the restaurant is filled with other people’s orders, other people’s HORRID THREADS OF FATE, but no! Your dish arrives. It is pleasant to the eye and to the nose. Waiting for the other diners at the table is an impossible task, but soon objective time replaces the slow-moving fantasy. A fork lifts; teeth sink; you are underwhelmed.
Hoping perhaps another bite will clarify matters, you bring another bland, chicken-y morsel (Fettucini – $16 ) to your tongue, but it only amplifies your disappointment. From this point on, every forkful is a chore; with every bolus of unloved fettuccini, you sulk further down that path other Waldos have walked before: overpriced, beige normalcy. Smiling apologetically around the table, you seem to say, “No, this is good! We made a good choice to come here instead of The Independent.” Similar nods return the sentiment, and you know that your tablemates know that you know that they know that you know that you are barely satisfied with your dinner.
Why couldn’t this have been like the apps, like the drinks? Like the laughter pouring out of the large, open windows? Why couldn’t you have been content with the joy that the apps brought? You reach for your wallet.
{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }
I want adam to narrate my life.
what a hoot!
and perhaps a lesson in lowering one’s expectations about a dish that cost no more than the cheesy fries that preceded it.
Actually, that’s a typo — the fettuccine is $16.
How bout the fact all the drinks are at least $2 more expensive than they are at RedBones or Flatbread?
Re: Kate, or whomever fixed the typo:
OH—OK. Bland fettucine with factory-raised chicken does not equal $16.