As someone with a gluten intolerance, I’ve become something of a connoisseur of restaurant flexibility. Most places roll out the red carpet, offer alternatives, and sometimes even smile while doing it. But not Miller and Carter in Bexley. Oh no. They took the “steakhouse” vibe a bit too literally — as in, if you want anything else, you're out of luck.
I asked for the salad — minus the grains and couscous. A simple swap, right? Just replace the birdseed with some humble potatoes. The waitress looked at me as if I’d just asked to exchange a kidney for fries. “That’ll be extra,” she said. For potatoes. POTATOES.
Eventually, after what felt like Brexit-level negotiations, common sense prevailed, and the swap was allowed. Victory? Hardly.
What arrived was… something. The salad looked like it had lost the will to live sometime in transit. A sad, soggy handful of what I suspect was bagged lettuce, possibly rescued from the reduced shelf at 10:58 PM. The potatoes? Four small, damp pebbles pretending to be new potatoes.
Honestly, I’ve had better meals in the office café — and their idea of fine dining is putting ketchup and brown sauce on your chips.
The best part of the evening? The beer. Cold, gluten-free, and blissfully unaware of the chaos around it.
Will I be back? Only if I lose a bet.