This place felt like a deleted scene from Vanderpump Rules—if the producers said, “Forget service, just cast based on jawlines and lash extensions.” The staff looked stunning but seemed confused by the concept of actually serving food.
The ambience? A chaotic blend of clattering glassware, loud-ass table convos, and women adjusting their girdles fresh off a Groupon BBL. It’s less “upscale dining,” more “post-club Denny’s with bottle service energy.”
Gluten-free options? Practically nonexistent unless iceberg lettuce counts as innovation.
The only saving grace? The steak was cooked to perfection, and the molten lava cake gushed harder than the finance bro at the bar trying to impress the bartender with his crypto portfolio.
Come for the people-watching, stay because your server forgot you exist.